


trial and error

by strawberryfinn



Series: best friends turned lovers [2]
Category: Justin Bieber (Musician), One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF, X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall falls in love five times before he finds the one, and Harry? Well he's been there all along.</p><p>Or the one where Harry and Niall are best friends who fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trial and error

“Harry, this is Louis. Louis, this is my best friend, Harry.”

 

Harry glances up from where he's nestled lazily into the worn, dilapidated couch cushions. He sets the magazine he's thumbing through down on the coffee table, and stretching out his limbs, he gets up to shake hands with the sturdy, bright boy standing next to Niall.

 

Louis has tousled cinnamon hair, tanned, sun-kissed skin, and vivid, dancing ocean-coloured eyes. His voice is delicate and fluty; his navy and white striped shirt and his red braces cling to his chest in all the right places, and he's stunning. It's no surprise Niall's fallen from him, Harry figures.

 

Because Harry can tell—he can see the nervous twitch of his best friend's jaw, the way his eyes keep trailing up Louis's frame, the way his fingers reach out subconsciously, daring, but too afraid to touch like Louis is a fire and he might get burned—that Niall's fallen, alright. And he's fallen _hard._

 

“Good to meet you, Harry,” Louis says, and he has a good, solid handshake to match his sturdy body. “Niall and I are working on a group project together. It's okay if we work in here, yeah? My roommate, Stan, has a bird over.” He smirks, revealing bright, shiny white teeth Harry can almost see his reflection in, and Niall chuckles a little too loudly at Louis's comment, even though it's not really meant to be a joke.

 

“Yeah,” Harry replies, turning slowly to smile knowingly at Niall. “Yeah, that's fine.”

_____________________________

Louis's **  
_who_   
** Niall loves. Niall hasn't been this giddy since Justin, Harry thinks absent-mindedly, as he watches Niall wave his hands around in excitement after Louis leaves, going on about Louis _this_ and Louis _that._ Louis is a philosophy major planning on going to law school. Louis is two years older than him, and therefore is consequently _mature._ Louis is an upperclassman, who isn't juvenile, and they're at uni now, so Niall can start looking at _older_ boys, _don't you think that's right, Haz?_

 

“Shut up and eat your breakfast. Well... I suppose it's lunch now,” Harry says good-naturedly, glancing at his watch (the one Niall got him for his birthday because he'd accidentally broken Harry's old one when he was absurdly drunk, and Harry would never admit it, but he actually likes Niall's replacement better), as he gestures to the plates of food on the kitchen table with his other hand. “I didn't slave over these for them to go to waste.”

 

Niall obeys immediately, sliding into his seat across from Harry, and grabbing the fork Harry offers him eagerly. Harry watches fondly as Niall immediately tucks into the mountain of fresh waffles drizzled with syrup and studded with blueberries. He busies himself scooping fresh whipped cream onto the waffles the way he knows Niall likes it. 

 

“You're too good to me, Haz,” Niall mumbles through a mouth full of food, eyes half-closed in some sort of sated, content state, syrup slipping down his chin. “Really, Harry.”

 

Harry tuts, reaching across the table to wipe a smear of cream from Niall's mouth before stealing a handful of blueberries off of Niall's plate. He puts a waffle on his own plate, and plays absently with it, tearing it into bits with his fingers. “Yeah, so Louis?”

 

“Oh!” Niall gulps down his food, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in spite of the napkin Harry has placed strategically right next to him. Harry rolls his eyes, but there's no real disdain in them. “Ya think he might like me?”

 

“Well... it depends,” Harry drawls, teasing as he puts a piece of waffle into his mouth. He doesn't have to look up to know that Niall's body is going rigid. “You didn't offer to have him stay for lunch, so-”

 

“You twat,” Niall groans, shiny, syrupy lips spotted blue. He chucks a blueberry at Harry's head, and Harry yowls in protest as the offending fruit lodges itself in his curly hair. Niall ignores him completely, muttering _you deserved it_ under his breath before continuing. “I offered y'know, because you always make so much food Harry, but he said he had to be getting back to work on other shit for school,” Niall waves his fingers around loftily. “But yeah, ya think he likes me?” 

 

“Everyone likes you, Niall.” Harry's answer is straightforward and matter-of-fact, because the truth of the matter is everyone _does_ like Niall. Sure, he laughs a little too hard at jokes that aren't funny just so the person saying the joke can feel better, maybe he drinks a little more than is healthy and tends to try to take off his clothes when he's inebriated, and he eats enough to feed several impoverished villages in one sitting. But Niall is easygoing, he likes to have a laugh and chat and have a good time, and he looks for comfort in his clothes—bright-colored snapbacks and Supras and grey sweatpants (and he's amassed a good number of Harry's jumpers and t-shirts over the years)—and he always knows how to make people feel better. Nobody dislikes Niall, and well if they do, then Harry might have something to say to them.

 

“You know what I mean, Haz.” Niall's voice is soft, more sensitive, and Harry realizes he's right. Niall's fallen hard.

 

“I think you've got a good shot,” is Harry's reply, and Niall's smile is bright enough to light up the room. “Now go do the dishes.”

 

Niall scowls at him, but after throwing some blueberries at Harry, he listens, gathering the bowls and plates up in his hands to trek towards the sink. Harry ambles over to the sofa and picks up his magazine and flips through the tele because... well, he can.

_____________________________

Harry meets Niall when he's five, and it's the first day of school.

 

The circumstances are less than ideal.

 

You see, Harry does tell his mum that he has to go to the bathroom—he really does, but they're already late as it is because Harry's older sister Gemma throws a fit that there are crusts on her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and whines about how she can't wear her frilly pink dress because it's in the wash. So they leave for school later than planned, and Harry's mum only manages a frantic, hurried kiss pressed to his nest of curly hair before she drives off to work.

 

The point is that Harry doesn't get to use the loo before class. All the kids are assigned to small desks with brightly-coloured name-tags. Harry's mum has already settled him down into his chair, and Harry glances to the desk on his right which has NIALL printed in thick, black block letters on a sky blue paper. The desk on his left reads DANIELLE on a pink slip, but the only thing Harry's acutely aware of is how his bladder seems too small and how he shouldn't have had that extra glass of orange juice.

 

He's jiggling his foot nervously, waving his small hand frantically in the air, but his teacher Mrs. Teasdale is too busy checking the rest of the kids in to pay any attention to him.

 

It's only natural that he wets his pants.

 

His face flames bright red. He can feel the hot liquid pooling in his trousers, and he's pretty sure this is the most mortified he's ever been in the entirety of his five years on Earth. He casts his eyes down, shamefaced, hoping that nobody will notice.

 

“Hi!” comes a cheerful voice, rouged with a thick, unfamiliar accent. Harry glances up to see a boy with dark brown hair poking out from under a green snapback and bright blue eyes, small hands clutched around a round, glass fishbowl full of water—a tiny, shimmering goldfish swimming blissful circles inside—his little fingers barely keeping their grip as he sends Harry a smile, with two missing front teeth.

 

Mortified green eyes stare back at him, large and hot with unshed tears. Harry hopes the boy hasn't picked up on the urine trickling down the leg of his trousers, and it's all he can do not to break out in hysterics when the friendly cerulean eyes widen in recognition.

 

The boy's pert, pink lips form a small “o” of understanding, and he opens his mouth. Harry cowers, expecting for the boy to out him as the boy who isn't potty-trained, and steels himself for the unending taunts of his classmates. 

 

Instead, the boy crows a loud, “Oops!” and steps forward to purposefully dump the bowl full of water into Harry's lap. The water arches in a waterfall before splattering all over Harry's crotch, puddling in his trousers. The strange boy flops onto the floor in a slick wet watery puddle, while Harry sits stunned, staring at his matted red name-tag now stippled with water droplets, feeling the water sift through the fabric of his pants onto his skin, and watching the goldfish bounce on his knees.

 

There's a cry of disdain from Mrs. Teasdale, who walks over briskly, something akin to disgust and exasperation scrawled on her face, and the boy has the decency to look completely shamefaced.

 

“Niall!” Mrs. Teasdale exclaims, suddenly on top of both of them, picking the boy—Niall—up from the floor. She snatches the glass bowl out of Niall's hands, a reprimand quick on her tongue. “What are you doing? Look at what you did to Harry! Apologize, right now!”

 

Niall nods, flushing a dusty pink under her gaze. He lowers his head and shuffles on his feet, eyes downcast as he murmurs, “Sorry, Harry.” He shifts in relief when Mrs. Teasdale turns her attention to Harry, mouth downturned in frustration.

 

“'S alright,” Harry stammers, uncomfortable with the way Mrs. Teasdale flutters nervously above him.

 

“Harry, oh dear, let's get you cleaned up. We'll call your mum to have her bring you some fresh clothes, alright?” Mrs. Teasdale reaches over Harry's lap to scoop the goldfish into the bowl, a squeamish look on her face. “Follow me to the office,” she directs Harry, before nearly glaring at Niall. “You too, Niall.”

 

The boys are whisked off to the office. Harry struggles to keep up with Mrs. Teasdale's long, purposeful strides, his wet trousers weighing him down and making it hard to move. In the office, Harry and Niall are seated beside each other, a plastic bag hastily placed on Harry's seat—which he finds humiliating, but nowhere near what it could have been. 

 

“Harry, we'll call your mum to have her bring you some fresh clothes, alright? Just wait right here,” Mrs. Teasdale says, and Harry can only nod, before Mrs. Teasdale glances at Niall and says in a warning voice, “And Niall, don't think we won't be calling your mother too.”

 

Niall sits, fingers trembling, face downcast and neck flushed pink, but Harry can see the hint of a small, gentle smile on his face when he glances at Harry. And that's when he realizes that Niall did it on purpose—the slipping and falling and spilling water all over Harry wasn't an accident. He was _saving_ him, Harry realized. Niall _saved_ him.

 

Mrs. Teasdale stops hovering over them long enough to go flutter off to make phone calls, and Harry uses the opportunity to lean close and whisper in Niall's ear.

 

“Sorry they're calling your mum,” he says, chewing at his lower lip, hoping the other boy will accept his apology. Because Niall's getting in a lot of trouble for saving him, and he really didn't have to. He didn't even know Harry's name or anything, and they're just starting the year, and now Mrs. Teasdale already doesn't like him.

 

Niall brings his hand up to adjust the bill of his hat. “'S alright,” he grins, exposing a smile with pearly teeth, interrupted by the gap where his front teeth are missing. “I don't mind. Me mum gets called for me brother Greg all the time. He's _eleven._ ”

 

Harry runs his eyes nervously along the motivational posters stapled to the wall of the school office before glancing down at his damp lap, and mumbling, “Thank you.”

 

Niall tilts his head, dark hair falling across his face and into his eyes as he watches Harry fidget in his seat. When he speaks again, he's no longer whispering, and Harry can't help the startled jolt that bolts through his chest.

 

“Wanna be friends? Me family just moved here from Ireland and I dunno anyone,” Niall confesses, honest and eager. Harry studies him, earnest eyes and hitched smile, and nods immediately.

 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

Niall's smile gets even wider, if possible, and he doesn't stop beaming even when Mrs. Teasdale tells him she'll be having a serious talk with his mum about Niall's behavior.

 

He goes back to class before Harry does because it's a while before Harry's mum arrives with new clothes. When Harry finally gets back to the classroom, none of the kids even mention what happened earlier, and Mrs. Teasdale makes sure to point out the class fish, which has been saved and is swimming in circles happily on her desk. Niall waves to Harry from where he's colouring in the corner of the room.

 

“Here,” Niall says, shoving an emerald crayon into Harry's hand. “This is my favourite.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry replies, and he leans in close to Niall to colour.

_____________________________

Classes start to pick up as they hit midterm season, and Harry is knee deep in novels. He's a comparative literature major, and he loves the subject, really does, but he has a twenty page composition due and he hasn't started reading the book, and he doesn't have time to breathe let alone eat or sleep. Niall's stressed too—he's put pursuing Louis on hold, though they talk quite often and he's always with Louis when he's not with Harry—thumbing through his sound engineering books and tugging at his hair in frustration. It's when Niall's gnawed through nearly all of his fingernails on his right hand that Harry decides they need a break from the stressful environment of their flat, and he drags Niall to the cafe downstairs.

 

Cowell Cafe is designed for students, with squishy comfortable chairs and brightly coloured student art tacked up against the wall. It's crowded, students holed up everywhere with textbooks open on their laps, outlets full of laptop chargers. There's an array of surprisingly pricy pastries—biscottis, scones, croissants, biscuits—seventeen different types of teas, and nineteen types of coffee.

 

“Come on now,” Harry pokes Niall in the side from where he's drooling at the food display, eyes glassy and skin under his eyes stippled purple with fatigue, “what do you want?”

 

Niall glances at him, shaking his head, and clears his throat. “What are you getting?”

 

“Chai tea,” Harry tells him, and cuts Niall off before he can reply. “Don't get the same thing as me because you always drink mine anyways. Get something different so you can return the favor for once.”

 

Niall rolls his eyes and mumbles something about a pumpkin spice latte, and Harry reaches his hand over to run his thumb over Niall's cheekbone while reciting the order to the barista.

 

The barista manning the cash register is a curly-haired brunette with a heart-shaped face. She blinks at Harry and Niall with almond-shaped, brown eyes, and her mouth shifts up into a bright smile. “One chai tea and one pumpkin spice latte?”

 

“Yeah, that's it... Reena,” Harry says, glancing at her name-tag. He hands her the money, and drags Niall over to a table that seats two.

 

They wait for their drinks to arrive, Niall drumming out varying patterns on the table with his fingers, and Harry silently praying that the coffee shop workers will take awhile to bring out their drinks so he can hide in the coffee shop and put off his composition a little longer.

 

That's not the case, and the same barista from the cash register—Reena, Harry reminds himself—is placing down their drinks in front of them along with a plate of freshly baked cranberry orange scones.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry, we didn't order these,” Harry quickly asserts, slapping Niall's hand away from the food. Niall glances at him sullenly until Harry slides his chai tea over to him. The blonde’s frown disappears instantly as he busies himself drinking Harry's beverage.

 

“I know!” titters Reena happily, tea towel slipping out of her apron onto the floor as she throws out her arms in excitement. “They're on the house! You two are just the cutest fucking couple I've ever seen!”

 

“Oh, we're not together,” Harry says automatically, because... well, they're not.

 

“What do you mean you're not together?” Reena squeals incredulously, as though Harry's just told her the world is ending.

 

Harry winces at the noise. “Me and Niall... 'M Harry by the way... you see, we're not dating.”

 

“But you two...” Reena looks bewilderedly from Harry to Niall and back. Niall's downed nearly all of Harry's tea at this point, and Harry gets even by grabbing Niall's latte.

 

“Ree!” comes a horrified shout, and then there's another barista—one with a straight, light brown hair, and baby blue eyes—barreling forwards. “What are you doing?” she squeaks nervously, hands flailing.

 

Ree launches into an explanation of how she was giving the cutest couple she'd ever seen free scones for being so cute only to find out they weren't a couple, when the other barista slaps a hand over her mouth.

 

“I'm so sorry for Ree's behavior,” the other barista—Tara, her name-tag says, sounding exasperated, flushing under Harry and Niall's disbelieving gaze. “Sorry if she bothered you—I think she just assumed. Which... is wrong. You two don't look... erm... like boyfriends. You... er...” she trails off, failing to finish her sentence, and removes her hand from Ree's mouth to hurriedly wipe a stain on Niall and Harry's table with a tea towel, face pink with embarrassment.

 

“But you're not dating?” Ree's voice falters as her forehead crinkles up in confusion, oblivious to Tara's murderous expressions. “You just seem... you just look like boyfriends... And you were holding each other's hands when you walked through the door. And you,” she points at Harry, sounding mildly accusatory, “paid for both drinks. Like you're on a _date_. How can you not be dating? Those are all qualities of a couple as far as I know.”

 

“Oh we're not dating. Harry's me best mate,” Niall assures her good-naturedly, mouth full of the scone they didn't pay for. Harry kicks him under the table—both exasperated about Niall's utter lack of table manners and also because he'll have to pay for extra food since he doesn't want Ree to lose her job for giving out free food and because Niall never brings his money when he goes out to eat with Harry since he knows Harry will always take care of him.

 

“The scones are on the house though. Sorry about the confusion—Ree, you can't just do that anymore. Mr. Cowell's gonna fire us,” Tara hisses, and Ree's shoulders sink in disappointment. She still looks bewildered, and a tad suspicious as she looks back and forth from Niall to Harry, but obeys when Tara points her back to the cash register, muttering something about the quality of her gaydar diminishing.

 

Harry leaves them an extra large tip—probably more than the scones probably cost—just because he's a good-hearted soul and Niall is pretty much a garbage disposal when it comes to food. The scones are delicious, and Niall's latte and Tara's grateful smile is enough to power him through a late night of reading and writing. He tells himself they'll have to return.

_____________________________

Winter comes around, snow blanketing the ground outside, and Harry gets sick.

 

It's kind of funny, to be quite honest. Niall's the idiotic one who doesn't ever wear jumpers and doesn't dress accordingly and doesn't check the weather before he goes out. He boldly (and stupidly) dons his sweatpants and his thin Henleys and Harry's always the one who has to bring along an extra jumper just so Niall doesn't freeze his Irish ass to death.

 

Harry, on the other hand, bundles himself up in the peacoat his older sister, Gemma, picked out for him, the scarves his mum, Anne, has knitted (she knits them for Niall too but he always forgets to wear them). He pulls on beanies and makes sure to wear gloves.

 

So it's really unfair that Harry's the one who gets sick.

 

Niall comes to check in on him (probably because Harry's not in the kitchen preparing breakfast), and finds Harry curled up on his bed, sweat-soaked curls of hair clinging to his feverish face, teeth chattering uncontrollably. 

 

“Haz?” Niall tries cautiously, prodding the limp lump under the covers, and Harry can only moan weakly in reply. His voice cracks and is shrouded in delirium, and Niall immediately presses his palm to Harry's forehead, feeling the waves of heat radiating off of Harry's body.

 

“Oh Harry.” Niall sounds sad, and his voice is too loud. Harry just wants to roll over on his side and for Niall to leave him alone so he can just die. Everything's hazy and uncomfortable, and his world is spinning, and he can't stop coughing. Every time he swallows it feels like blades are slipping down his throat, and he might be a uni student, but all he wants to do is cry.

 

“Shh,” Niall croons, skittering his fingers across Harry's collarbones. “I'm gonna take care of you, k?”

 

“You have plans with Louis,” Harry protests feebly, because how could he forget when Niall has reminded him over and over and _over again_ and has made Harry check over his outfit seven times. (In the end, Harry just lent Niall some of his clothes because, as Niall points out, he doesn't need to buy his own when he can just take Harry's). “I'll be fine.”

 

“Bullshit,” Niall says, but he doesn't sound angry. “Soup, yeah? Chicken noodle alright?”

 

Harry's too miserable to reply, and just shifts over on his side, tucking his head into his pillow. He feels hands on his sides, pulling his sweatshirt down over his exposed chest, fingers tucking the sheets around his body.

 

“I'll be right back, k?” Niall promises, and Harry just groans like a child because he hates being sick. “You're not dying on my watch.”

 

Harry grumbles, pulling his sheets under him like an octopus. He hears clanging in the kitchen, but tries to lull it out as he surrenders to much-needed sleep.

_____________________________

“You've gotten a lot better at this,” Harry murmurs weakly, letting Niall prop him up against the pillows. “Remember the first time you made me soup?”

 

“Ah, shut up,” Niall says, but his voice is gentle, soft, as he clambers onto the bed next to Harry. There's hardly enough room for the both of them on the tiny twin-sized mattress, but Niall manages to squeeze in, balancing the steaming bowl of chicken and noodles on his knees. “I was six, okay?”

 

Harry chuckles at the memory. Niall, wide-eyed and bewildered, mouth down-turned and bottom lip wobbling precariously under Anne's incredulous gaze. The microwave steaming and sputtering; salvaged just in time by Anne's quick notice of Niall's attempt to “cook soup for Harry.”

 

“I didn't know you couldn't microwave soup in the cans!” Niall had whimpered later, burying his flaming face in the crook of Harry's shoulder, eyes watery and voice shaky. “You think your mum hates me?”

 

“She could never hate you,” Harry had promised, squeezing Niall's little hands in his own small ones, “because I like you.”

 

His laugh turns into a hoarse cough, and Niall frowns at him in disapproval. He lets Niall push back his damp, curly hair, press a kiss to his feverish forehead.

 

“Come on now, open up,” Niall orders, unchecked concern in his voice.

 

Harry obeys, body aching with fatigue. He lets Niall spoon hot broth down his throat, lets the soup fill his belly and drift through him, heat radiating outwards. 

 

“It's good,” he manages to say, after slurping rather enthusiastically. Niall just hums and slips more soup into Harry's tired body until the bowl is empty.

 

“Thanks.” Harry gives Niall a weak smile as Niall leans over to drop the empty bowl on the bedside table.

 

“I've got you,” Niall promises, thumbing his fingers over Harry's cheekbone. “It's okay. Now scoot.”

 

Harry obeys as best as he can, lets Niall slip his hands around his sides, holding him close. A breath rattles in his throat, and he wheezes. Niall kisses the back of his neck, and Harry lets himself fall asleep, lulled by the feel of Niall's heartbeat against his back.

_____________________________

The thing is, after Harry's fever breaks and after he works out the kinks in his body, tight and weary, he realizes something's changed. When he touches Niall, he finds himself wanting to make the skin to skin contact longer, his eyes lingering on every inch of Niall's face as though he's trying to commit it to memory. Cold nights under warm blankets with Niall pressed up to his side make his stomach flutter, and his heart beat so loudly he's afraid it might just burst out of his ribcage. Something about the way that Niall holds him when he sleeps, arms wound tight and nose pressed into the hollow of Harry's throat, makes him wish he'd never let go. Somewhere amidst the heated blankets and feverish limbs and the way Niall just _fits_ scares him—yet feels simultaneously so right, so natural, and he doesn't quite know what's different anymore.

 

That uncomfortable, itchy, unpleasant feeling that comes whenever Niall mentions Louis nearly doubles, and it's only when Niall gets his heart broken that Harry realizes he's in love.

_____________________________

The thing is Louis is straight.

 

He's always been straight—straight as a ruler, an arrow, you might say—though painstakingly styled hair, rolled up, cuffed jeans, and remarkable dedication to personal hygiene might suggest otherwise.

 

Harry barely manages to decipher—through Niall's miserable sniffles—that Niall was just about to tell Louis how he felt about him when Louis's phone had chirped.

 

“Hold on a second, yeah, Nialler?” Louis had asked, as he smiled at a text message. “I have a special visitor.”

 

And the door had opened to reveal a leggy brunette, hair curled flawlessly around her slender face, clear skin, cute pert nose, chocolatey brown eyes. She had practically launched herself at Louis, and Louis had smiled secretively, intimately, into her neck.

 

“I mean I'd seen pictures of her in his flat... but... This whole time I thought she was his sister. I thought they were _related_ ,” Niall moans, and he had—until they'd started making out. “He was just like, 'Hey Niall, this is my girlfriend Eleanor,' and I was standing there like a bloody _idiot,_ Harry.”

 

“Shh, it's alright,” Harry croons, pulling Niall into an embrace. He makes a mental note to himself to pick up some extra pints of chocolate ice cream on his next trip to the grocery store because he's seen Niall through enough heartache to know that Niall is sure as hell gonna need it. “It's okay.”

 

“You must think I'm so stupid,” Niall mutters moodily, hot breath brushing over Harry's neck. Harry shivers, but Niall doesn't comment on it.

 

“I could never think that,” Harry replies, even though yeah, Niall probably should have realized the girl in all of Louis's pictures wasn't his sister. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, but he feels immensely relieved—which is wrong because he wants Niall to be happy, but now that Louis is out of the picture, there's less competition and more of a chance Niall might notice _him._

 

____________________________________________________

 

It's probably Harry's own fault that Niall doesn't fall for him next.

 

You see, after Louis, all Niall wants to do is lie around in bed and wallow in self-pity. He goes through six cartons of ice cream, two boxes of powdered doughnuts, and three rolls of chocolate biscuits (Harry knows this because he's the one who buys all the groceries). Niall's hair is unkempt and unwashed with natural, dark brown roots mixing murkily into his frayed blonde tips, and his usually clean-shaven face is darkened with stubble, and Harry's pretty sure he's been wearing his grey sweatpants for four days straight.

 

And Harry can't have this. He misses Niall's dumb smile, full of stubborn crooked teeth that refuse to succumb to the power of braces. He misses how Niall laughs at the stupidest of things. He misses the easygoing Niall, the fun one, the one who will stuff Harry into a car at midnight to go out for a night on the town. He misses the adventures they have when the rest of the world is asleep, how they lie down in dry grass to look up at the stars.

 

He's not going to let one boy ruin Niall. Niall's in a rut, he knows—he's seen this before—but Harry's determined to get him out of it.

 

So he pulls Niall out of his bed by the ankles. Niall complains the entire way, but Harry tosses him into the shower and turns on the cold water at full blast, smirking when the moans turn into a steady stream of curses. Niall calls him every four-letter word under the sun, and Harry just smiles, thinking Niall might be on his way back up.

 

He pops open a box of newly purchased hair dye and helps Niall dye his hair back to the white blonde Niall's sported since he was ten. He carefully combs bleach through Niall's hair, remembering how the first time Niall had dyed his hair Harry had stood by and watched anxiously as Niall's mum, Maura, skeptically read the label on the instruction box while simultaneously asking Niall if he was sure about this. He can't help but grin at the memory of his initial shock when Niall's hair, which had been dark chocolate brown since Harry met him that fateful day he'd wet his pants, had suddenly been blonde and so different, but not half bad.

 

After calling in takeout from Niall's favourite restaurant for dinner, Harry forces Niall down the road to a pub. Niall doesn't feel like drinking, but Harry buys him a pint and sits him down at the counter anyway, fully intent on getting his best friend back. Niall already looks better, face at least shaved and clean, and he has no doubt that getting Niall drunk will help. They'll talk it through, have a laugh, and everything will be back to normal. They'll be back to Harry and Niall—maybe, Harry lets himself believe, maybe even _more_ than that, and they'll forget all about the boy with cinnamon hair and stormy blue eyes who broke Niall's heart.

_____________________________

Getting Niall drunk is about the worst idea Harry's ever had in his life.

 

Because the thing is, with alcohol in him, Niall gets _bold_. And sure, it's fun and games when they're at home in their flat and Niall's making an absolute prat of himself just in front of Harry, but it's another thing completely when Niall looks good and he's vulnerable. It's even worse when Niall doesn't realize it and insists on batting his eyes flirtatiously (or stupidly, Harry thinks miserably), at everyone.

 

“Harry, he's looking at me.”

 

Harry glances over to where Niall's gesturing under the table and _holyshitontoast_ the boy's a looker. Dark, inky eyelashes, regal, elegantly styled quiff, full, broody lips, high cheekbones, chin stippled with rugged scruff, and liquid amber eyes that are fixed dangerously on Niall, trailing over Niall's slender build and firework of hair like he wants to eat Niall alive. Harry watches as the raven-haired stranger takes a gulp from his glass, and forces himself to look away from the bobbing Adam's apple.

 

“Nah, he's not, you're just imagining things.” Harry tries to hide the bitterness seeping into his voice, because seriously, all he wanted was to take Niall out for a night on the town to help him feel better, and figure out how to tell Niall he likes him and things are definitely not going as planned.

 

“Yeah he is. He's coming over here,” Niall slurs, a bit goofily, mouth hitched up at the edges, eyes glassy.

 

Harry's heart sinks as he hears footsteps, and the strange boy crosses the room purposefully, eyes glued to the drunk blonde sitting next to Harry.

 

“Hey Sweetheart,” says the dangerous stranger as he slips into the seat next to Niall.

 

“Hi,” Niall replies coyly, his voice a bit higher than usual. Harry punches him in the side in exasperation because is Niall really going to flirt with this dark-haired stranger? Okay, he's gorgeous, but that's not the point. Niall stomps on Harry's foot under the table, glowering at him and ignoring Harry's yelp of pain. He mutters “cock-block” under his breath before turning his full attention to the broody stranger. Harry sees Arabic script decorating the dark boy’s collarbone, and feeling like an intruder, he turns away.

 

“You with him?” the stranger asks Niall, pointing at Harry.

 

Niall gives Harry a warning glare. “No, he likes birds.” He turns his attention to the dark-haired boy who smiles wolfishly at him.

 

“'M Zayn,” the stranger—Zayn—says, voice smooth and alluring and accented like a brick of dark chocolate.

 

“ _Ni_ all,” Niall replies shyly, and Harry's horrified to see him chew on his bottom lip suggestively like he's a girl. Because Niall doesn't do this—Niall is loud and obnoxious and rambunctious, and he should _not_ have this much sex appeal. Especially not for some dark-haired stranger Harry doesn't know or trust, and does not want anywhere near his best friend.

 

Zayn grins again, bright white teeth glinting in the dim lighting, and Harry can feel his heart rate pick up, because he does _not_ like the predatory gleam in Zayn's eyes or the tattoos on his arms or how he smells of cigarettes.

 

Harry fights the urge to scream when Zayn leans in close to Niall's ear, his stubble sliding along the blonde's jaw and eliciting a shiver.

 

“How about you and I get out of here?” Zayn asks, voice low and provocative. His dark eyes focus on Niall and the way his pale skin flushes prettily, practically glowing, even in the dim lighting of the bar.

 

Niall smiles at him, eyes dark with lust as the golden-skinned boy runs a hand down his thigh, fingers digging in with a bit more gusto than Harry thinks is appropriate. Harry coughs into his clenched fist, green eyes flashing in offense as he glares from across the table. Niall glances at him quickly, and shakes his head, an apologetic smile tilting on his lips as he nods his head toward Harry.

 

“I can't really leave my friend here,” Niall tells Zayn, his voice wavering and a bit disappointed. Harry forces himself to refrain from fist pumping in success, glad to see that Niall has seemingly resigned himself to letting the mysterious Zayn go as he shuffles back, pulling himself out of Zayn's grasp.

 

Zayn bares his teeth a bit, evidently not willing to give up quite yet. He looks Harry over, shadowed caramel eyes swimming with some sort of dark intent Harry can't quite figure out, and Harry squirms under the penetrative gaze. It doesn't pass Harry's notice that Zayn's hand is still spread possessively over Niall's leg.

 

“I think I've got an idea,” Zayn intones, a friendly smile curving his lips, but Harry doesn't like him any better. Zayn whistles across the bar, tattooed arm raising and curled fingers beckoning someone over.

 

A firecracker of a girl strolls by, all legs and soft features and sharp eyebrows, wearing a slinky, short black dress that makes Harry wince. Zayn whispers something in her ear, brushing back her curled dark hair, before crooking his mouth down to Niall's ear. The blonde lights up, agreement and apparent approval scrawled on his face, and Harry doesn't have a good feeling about this.

 

“Harry, this is Cher. She's gonna keep you company, is that okay?” Niall gestures to the girl, as he rises from his chair and pulls his coat on. Zayn's doing the same beside him, and Harry can't help the bubble of panic that catches in his throat. He reaches out and grabs Niall's wrist, pulling and almost causing his best friend to topple over.

 

“What are you doing?” Harry hisses through clenched teeth. Niall smiles at him and giggles and gives him a thumbs up.

 

“Is... it's okay if I leave, yeah?” Niall asks, and he sounds so goddam hopeful and his eyes are so bright and eager that Harry just _can't_ say no. Niall leans down close to Harry's ear, hot breath ghosting over Harry's skin, “If everything goes planned, we'll both have a good time tonight, yeah? That's what you wanted, yeah?”

 

And Harry can't manage to make his voice work fast enough to tell Niall _no, that’s not what he wanted at all_ before Niall is up and out the door, small frame molded to Zayn's side. Cher practically sits herself in Harry's lap, and there's nothing he can do about it.

_____________________________

Cher is quite pissed (understandably so), and she actually grunts and pouts in annoyance when Harry brushes off her attempts to flirt, choosing to ignore her completely. He pays her no mind, and instead sends Niall seventeen text messages and calls him eight times, because he knows this can't end well. Niall doesn't answer any of the messages or pick up, and Harry growls in frustration as he calls a cab home.

 

Harry stays up all night, biting his fingernails, praying that the flat door will fling open and Niall will come home. He flips the tele on, pops in an action movie with lots of screaming and gunshots to keep him alert, and fixes himself three cups of coffee. He knows Niall better than anyone, and he knows Niall cares too much, is too vulnerable and too optimistic and too naïve and big-hearted to get lost in late night hookups. He knows the one boy Niall's slept with nearly destroyed him, because Harry was there for the aftermath, and he remembers how long it took to put all the little Niall pieces back into his recognizable best friend.

 

He falls asleep somewhere around four in the morning, and at eleven, the door creaks open.

 

Niall saunters in, hair disheveled and shirt rumpled. His lips are plump and swollen, and he yawns, stretching out his body. There are dark red love bites scattered down the long, pale column of his neck, and Harry can't take his eye off of them.

 

Niall flops onto the couch next to Harry, a lazy, sated smile curving upwards on his pink lips. He reaches over aimlessly, and picks at the stale popcorn Harry made the night before, flicking a kernel at Harry's hair. Harry watches him, questions like “where did you go,” “what happened,” “why didn't you text me back,” “don't you know how worried I was,” clogging his throat.

 

But Niall speaks first, voice a little rougher and more hoarse than usual, and Harry glares at the floor, biting his lip in determination so he doesn't have to think of why. “Thanks for that, Harry. I really needed to get back in the game, clear my head, y'know?”

 

Niall's fingers reach across the couch and lace into his, and Harry glances up at Niall, face flushed. Niall grins at the blush on Harry's face, evidently interpreting it as something else entirely. He glances around the apartment and an absolutely filthy smirk spreads over his face. “Where's that bird from last night, Harry? Already get rid of her?”

 

Harry ignores Niall's question, tries not to focus on the warmth pooling in his stomach from the blonde’s touch, anxious for Niall to confirm that Zayn—and his tattoos and scent of cigarettes and perfect hair and mysterious, lusty smile—won't be a part of their lives anymore. “It was a one time thing, yeah? You're not gonna see him again?”

 

Niall flinches, then shrugs as though it's no bother, and flips on the tele. He noses his face into Harry's shoulder and mumbles, “Probably not.”

_____________________________

Except he does.

 

Zayn calls the next day and the next day and the day after that, and Harry can only watch as Niall slips further and further out of his grasp.

_____________________________

Harry is twelve when his mum gets remarried.

 

It's not that he doesn't like Robin—far from that, Robin is nice and charming and Anne really seems to like him—but it means that his parents really aren't ever going to get back together, and now he has to learn how to call someone else _Dad._

 

He watches for a month as his mum flutters around, all excited smiles and shy blushes and bright-eyed over dress designs and flower arrangements and cake samples, and he can only be happy for her—because he loves his mum and if Robin makes her happy than he's happy.

 

But this doesn’t make it any less awkward when the day of the wedding finally arrives. He's dressed up in a little charcoal suit and light blue vest to match the groom (his mum's idea), and he escorts his own sister down the aisle as they take their places amongst the rest of the wedding party. His mum is a vision in a flowing white gown with a sweetheart neckline, and Gemma looks mature and lovely in her light blue dress that matches Harry's vest.

 

It's uncomfortable standing still for that long though—Harry's feet ache in his new, shiny leather shoes—but he remembers to smile when he looks out into the crowd and sees Niall. Niall beams at him, white blonde hair combed into submission and cheeks rosy in excitement, as he squirms next to Maura in the pretty white chairs embellished with light blue ribbons. Harry has to bite his lip to keep from bursting out in laughter when Niall pulls a face—blue eyes crossed and tongue waggling—and remembers that he's supposed to be paying attention. He turns back just in time to see his mum start to cry as Robin slips a delicate, silvery ring onto her finger.

 

Harry opens his mouth in a whoop to join in with everyone at the wedding, and when he glances out into the crowd again, Niall meets his eyes automatically. He smiles, teeth bright and eyes crinkled up at the sides, and Harry thinks the day won't be so bad after all.

_____________________________

Niall is just about the only thing that makes the reception bearable. It's at a beautiful venue, a hardwood dance platform placed in the middle of a lush, green lawn, and white lanterns with golden strung lights hang above, but Harry, miserable in his tight shoes and his tie, has no appreciation for the results of painstaking wedding planning. He has relatives he doesn't even know coming up to him, pinching his cheeks and crooning over how cute he is and how big he's gotten, and despite Niall's teasing titters as he mimics Harry's great-aunt Ethel and how he pokes Harry's dimples, he's glad Niall's here.

 

Harry and Niall manage to escape and crawl under the dessert table, hidden from view by the white tablecloth. There's a plate of chocolate cupcakes on the ground between them, mostly smushed with frosting everywhere. Niall's eaten the majority of them, but Harry doesn't mind.

 

“Do you think I'm gonna get a new dad too?” Niall asks, bright-eyed, as he licks chocolate frosting off his fingers. He peeks out curiously from under the thick tablecloth at the adults making small talk. A surge of affection and sympathy runs through Harry when he remembers how torn up Niall had been when his own parents got divorced, and he leans down to rest his head on the smaller boy's shoulder.

 

“Maybe,” he notes quietly, wrapping his arm around Niall's waist, “do you want one?”

 

Niall shrugs, jostling Harry's head. Harry just inches in closer to Niall, knowing that the silence means Niall is thinking the question over.

 

“I don't know,” Niall admits, glancing down sadly at the crumpled cupcake wrapper in his hands. He tosses it to the side and brushes cake crumbs off of his dress pants. “I miss my dad. And Greg. Mum never wants to play catch with me.”

 

Harry nods, knowing that Niall hasn't seen his dad or his older brother, Greg, since his parents got divorced. He thinks about his own father (who he hasn’t seen much of at all since the divorce) and his sister, and how much he'd miss them if he never saw them, and offers Niall the last cupcake.

 

Niall grins brightly, all serious talk evidently tossed to the side, and has just managed to stuff the whole cupcake into his mouth when the tablecloth flips up. Both Harry and Niall yelp in surprise when an exasperated Gemma looks down at them, her shiny chestnut brown hair twisted up in a loose bun. She frowns at both of them, rolling her eyes at the chocolate frosting smeared across their lips.

 

“Mum's been looking everywhere for you,” Gemma sighs, reaching down to pull the two boys up by their wrists. “Come on then, everyone's dancing.”

 

She shepherds them to the dance floor, and promptly leaves to join a boy who's evidently the son of Robin's family friend. His name is Tom Daley and he's got dreamy eyes and a sexy smile and a cute butt—or at least that's what Harry's read in Gemma's diary.

 

Harry stands around awkwardly, shuffling on his feet because he doesn't really know how to dance and he doesn't really want to dance and there's really no one to dance with him anyways, but the next thing he knows, Niall's elbowing him in the side and sending him a contagious smile.

 

“Wanna dance with me?” Niall asks, lifting his hand to Harry's in offering.

 

Harry looks in disbelief from Niall's face to his hand and back again before answering, eyebrow quirked and cheeks dimpled. “Aren't we supposed to dance with girls?”

 

Niall scoffs, looking vaguely insulted. “I'm way better than any girl.” 

 

He leans forward to impulsively grab Harry's hand himself before dragging him to the very center of the dance floor. Harry grins, taking Niall's other hand and pulling them into an incredibly off-beat dance that's more them hopping around and spinning in circles than actual dancing. He giggles, and Niall tosses back his head and laughs his rich, breathy laugh.

 

Their cheeks are flushed from the night air and from their laughter when the upbeat music slows down to a soft, romantic melody. Niall starts to unravel his sticky, chocolatey fingers from Harry's, but Harry pulls him in closer, loosely looping his arms around Niall's waist in an imitation of the people around them. Niall catches on soon enough, hands hesitantly rising to rest on Harry's shoulders, and he looks suddenly different, shyer, in the light. He hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder as they spin in slow circles, and the thought of how hard this day—watching his mum marry someone who isn't his dad—would have been without Niall passes through Harry's mind. He hugs the blonde even tighter, glad with every fiber of his being, that Niall is his best friend. 

 

“Harry look,” Niall whispers, his nose brushing through Harry's curls, “they're all kissing.”

 

Harry glances around the dance floor, noticing that Niall is right. All the older couples are kissing, sweet pecks being exchanged between secretive, intimate looks; even Gemma kisses Tom, a bashful flush dusting her cheeks, her eyes sparkling.

 

“Must be the song,” Harry reasons, eyes turning away embarrassedly.

 

Niall nods against his shoulder before pulling back to look Harry in the eye, his own cheeks candy apple red. He's close enough that their noses brush when he speaks, and Harry can smell the sugar on Niall's breath, the scent of familiarity and home that he's always associated with Niall. “Whaddya think kissing feels like?” There's an innocent wonder swimming in his large, cerulean eyes, long lashes dusting shadow across his lightly freckled cheeks.

 

Harry licks his lips uncertainly, suddenly nervous as he casts another glance around the dance floor. He tries his best not to stumble over his words when he whispers, “Why don't we find out?”

 

There's no uncomfortable pause when he leans in, meeting Niall's lips in an innocent kiss. It's a bit awkward—Harry doesn't think their noses should be bumping this much—and it's over quickly, but Niall tastes like chocolate and boy, and when Harry leans back, he can't help but smile at the full blown toothy grin Niall has splayed on his lips.

 

Harry thinks to say something, but he doesn't get the chance to as the song changes and Niall pulls them into a jig that has him laughing so hard he's almost crying.

 

Later that night when they're returning home, and Harry's nodding off in the car as Robin drives, his mum turns around from the passenger seat to look at him. She squeezes his knee affectionately, a warm smile on her face. “Harry, honey, thank you for a wonderful evening. Did you have a good time?”

 

Harry thinks about a whirlwind of lights and white blonde hair and laughs and chocolate and his best friend. He thinks about secretive smiles and a first kiss he's lost and a first kiss he's gained, and he nods yes.

_____________________________

Zayn Malik is, despite Harry's distaste for the boy, exactly __  
**what**  
Niall needs.

 

Because Harry can see that Zayn is what Niall wants. The passionate kisses, the overwhelming desire, the late nights turned to early mornings that leave him breathless and boneless and glowing for the rest of the day.

 

Harry hates it; hates seeing Niall abandon a school project in the middle of working when his phone buzzes. He hates seeing Niall return in the mornings with the memory of _Zayn_ pressed into his skin, kiss swollen lips spilling with adjectives describing how wonderful it all is, how wonderful _Zayn_ is.

 

It's only a couple of weeks in—a couple of frustrating, infuriating weeks that leave Harry's gut twisting in frustrated envy and his wrist cricking from his runaway imagination—that Niall picks up smoking, and Harry's just about had it.

 

He grabs Niall just before he leaves, grass green eyes absorbing how bony Niall is, how his collarbones are littered with rough hickeys, how his usually clear, fluid sky blue eyes are lined with exhaustion.

 

“What is it Haz?” Niall asks, voice lined with an unfamiliar impatience Harry's never heard before. “I'm already late.”

 

“We need to talk,” Harry says, wrapping his fingers around Niall's wrist and dragging him to the couch. He seats Niall down and sits himself on the coffee table across from him. Niall doesn't protest, but Harry can tell by the way his leg is jiggling up and down that the blonde wants nothing more than to leave, so Harry doesn't beat around the bush. “I don't think you should see Zayn anymore.”

 

Niall stills at that, leg stopping its bouncing, eyebrows rising so high that Harry thinks they might just disappear into his hairline. “Excuse me?”

 

“He's not good for you, Nialler.” Harry launches into his argument, intent on making Niall understand. He tries to convince himself that he's not being selfish—that Niall has changed and it hasn't been for the better. “You're out all the time, drinking and smoking and doing God knows what else. You hardly sleep. I don't know if you go to classes because I haven't seen you do an ounce of homework in weeks, and I don't know if you eat because I don't even get to see you anymore.”

 

Niall actually looks a bit shame-faced as he studies his hands twisting hard in his lap, shoulders drooping. Harry forces himself not to look at the strip of skin visible just above the waistline of his sweatpants because there are more love bites there, and he doesn't want to think about Zayn doing that—his warm, toned body looming over Niall’s no doubt flushed skin. “Okay, so maybe I've been slacking in school a bit, but it's not Zayn's fault. I just like spending time with him. I just like being wanted, Harry, is that so bad?” He turns imploring eyes on Harry, and Harry feels himself soften a bit in spite of his resolve to remove every trace of Zayn Malik from Niall's life.

 

And Harry thinks, _let_ me _want you, I want you so bad,_ but he doesn't get the chance because Niall continues, “You don't know him like I do. He's not a bad guy at all—he cares about me.”

 

“No he doesn't,” Harry huffs carelessly, brashly, callously, and he knows instantly it's a mistake when Niall's eyes turn icy, his posture going stiff.

 

“Yes he does.” Niall's voice is incredulous, heavy with disbelief, and he's giving Harry such a wounded look that Harry may as well have kicked him. “You wouldn't know that because you've never given him a chance. He doesn't fit into your cookie cutter expectations, so you just throw him aside and think he's no good. But he matters to me, Harry, and as my friend—if you even are that anymore—you have to respect that. He cares about me, Harry, and I care about him, so leave it alone.”

 

Niall rises, shoulders squared and face flushed in anger, and storms to the door.

 

“Niall, wait,” Harry calls, scrambling to his feet to follow him.

 

“No.” Niall spins around and Harry stops dead in his tracks at the heat of his glare. There's the bitter taste of dread on his tongue, and he doesn't think Niall's ever looked at him like that. “I'm going out. Don't wait up,” Niall spits, and Harry flinches. If Niall notices, he doesn't say anything, just straightens his shoulders defensively and squares his jaw.

 

Harry watches from the window of their flat as Niall leaves, small body wrapped in a leather jacket that Zayn offers him when Niall meets him outside, dread pooling in his stomach. He hopes Zayn will prove him wrong, teach Harry a lesson, stick around, because at least that way, Niall won't get hurt.

_____________________________

Harry and Niall get into a huge fight when they're fourteen years old. It's two weeks before Christmas, and Harry is over the moon in excitement and anticipation because this year he's supposed to celebrate with his father—his _real_ father, whom he hasn't seen in four years. He likes Robin, yes, and he has to admit that Robin has kind of taken the role as his surrogate father, but it doesn't mean he's one hundred percent okay with bringing in his stepfather for parent teacher conferences or father-son bonding days at school.

 

So he's ecstatic when his dad calls on the first of December and asks if Harry would like to spend Christmas Day with him. He thinks about how his father will exclaim about how much he's grown, how he'll impress his dad by telling him about his good marks in school and how he's made the school football team. His mum is a bit worried about the whole situation, asks him if he's sure he wants to do this, if he's sure he's okay with the idea, and Gemma refuses to see their father outright, but Harry blows off their concerns because he's so excited. 

 

That's why he's so worried when his dad won't return his calls when he tries to get the details. He tells himself that his father must be busy—he'll call back when he's not working, he'll call back when he's free—because Harry's his son, and his father loves him, he _does_ , Harry knows it.

 

Niall's there when he calls his dad for the seventeenth time. It goes straight to the answering machine, and Harry leaves a message in a trembling voice (“Dad, it's me again. Harry. C-call me back when you get the chance? I... I er... wanted to ask you.. about Christmas. If you still... want to see me? Anyways, call me. You have my number.”).

 

Harry's fingers are shaking when he hangs up, and he buries his head in his hands. They're sitting in front of Niall's house, about to go play in the snow. Niall's wearing a stupid knitted hat with a gigantic pom-pom at the top, and green gloves. Both of them are bundled up in cozy maroon jumpers Maura picked out for the both of them—since Harry's been somewhat accepted as a second son—and Niall sniffs, pale cheeks rosy from the cold air, before saying, “You should probably stop calling, Harry.”

 

“Whaddya mean?” Harry asks, crinkling his nose, because of course his dad is going to call back, he's just been really busy lately, and Harry just has to remind him—surely Niall can understand that.

 

“Your dad's kind of a flake,” Niall says evenly, and he doesn't beat around the bush as he finishes. “I'm tired of seeing him hurt you, Harry. He's a dick.”

 

Harry’s on him in a flash, fingers knotted in Niall's scarf, face dangerously close to Niall's. “You take that back now, Niall.”

 

Much to his chagrin, Niall just juts out his chin defiantly. “No.”

 

“Take it back!” Harry howls, and he shoves Niall to the ground, pins the smaller boy's wrists above his head in the snow. Niall squirms, whimpers, “Harry stop, you're hurting me,” but his pleas fall on deaf ears, because Harry's too incensed to care.

 

“You have no right to say that about my dad.” Harry's voice is blistering, furious. Something in Niall's eyes flare dangerously, and he glares at Harry, all traces of vulnerability gone.

 

“Your dad keeps hurting you, Harry. He says he wants to reconnect every year, and then he never follows up on it! You have a stepfather—and a good one at that—so why don't you try to spend time with him instead of an asshole of a father who never takes the time to see you?” Niall spits, and Harry's screaming a retort before he really thinks it through.

 

“Well you know what? Your father chose your brother over you! At least I'm good enough for my dad to still _talk_ to me!”

 

It's deathly silent, and Harry's acutely aware of the tension in the air. Niall tenses, before bristling. Harry's grip slackens on Niall's wrists, and Niall scrambles out of his grasp, standing up to run inside his house. He slams the door angrily behind him, and Harry curls in on himself, thinking of what he's done.

 

Harry kicks himself mentally because how could he be so _stupid_? He knows how sensitive Niall is about his parents' divorce, how he places impossibly high standards on himself to be like his older brother Greg, how he places his father and Greg on some sort of pedestal. Harry knows that when Niall's parents split, the deal was that his father got custody over Greg while Maura took Niall. He knows Niall feels like he was the lesser child, the less wanted one, the second choice, and sure, Niall was being a jerk, but Harry can't help but hate himself for hurting him.

 

When Harry sits down next to Niall at the lunch table the next day, Niall stiffly takes up his bagged lunch and moves to sit with another group of kids. Harry ends up eating alone that day, and the day after, and the day after that, and he cries himself to sleep every night for the rest of that week.

 

Anne tries to ask what's wrong. She hugs him to her chest and pets his hair like she did when he was little, but Harry won't say— _can't_ say—because he's afraid that saying it out loud will make it real. He clings onto the small chance that his best friend in the entire world isn't really mad at him, that this is all a bad dream, and he'll wake up at any moment.

 

But it isn't—it's not a nightmare, and Harry spends the majority of his days during holiday locked up in his room, refusing to come out even when Gemma tries to bribe him with pumpkin pie.

 

He's fairly sure his family, or at least his mum, has caught on—Niall hasn't been around the house in over a week and she's finally stopped asking why—so he's surprised when she knocks on the door of his room to tell him that Niall and Maura are coming over for Christmas Eve.

 

Maura and Niall always come over to celebrate with Harry's family. There's only the two of them, and Maura and Anne have become close friends, swapping stories about their children's mischief, so it only makes sense that Niall and his mum have somewhere to go on holidays, Anne explains.

 

But Niall still isn't talking to him, and Harry's heart is balled in a painful knot when Niall and Maura come over for dinner that night. Niall doesn't even look him in the eye when Harry asks him to pass the salt over dinner, and he's pretty sure that Anne notices the hot tears prickling his eyes. They do dishes silently—Harry hands the wet, soapy dishes to Niall and Niall dries them and places them in their designated places in the cabinets (years of sleeping over and treating Harry's home as his second home has taught him where they all go), but it's eerily silent. Harry thinks back to the previous Christmas when Niall wouldn't stop singing and Harry couldn't stop giggling because Gemma was screeching at them to shut up, and he wishes he could go back.

 

After doing the dishes, they all settle around the fireplace—like they do every year—because it's time to exchange presents. Harry's curled up in the armchair, his side uncomfortably and unfamiliarly cold without Niall pressed into it, and his eyes are trained, glassy and inattentive, on the glistening lights of the Christmas tree. He wills himself not to look at the ornaments he designed when he was little because he knows that in Maura's house, there are matching ones made by Niall.

 

He almost jumps out of his chair when a box—wrapped in shining green paper and topped with a messy red bow—is shoved under his nose. There's a dangling tag shaped like a penguin that says, “To Harry, From: Niall,” the names scribbled in Niall's signature, neat, curly print.

 

When Harry looks up, Niall is toeing the ground, blue eyes stubborn and brows furrowed when Harry just sits there, mouth slightly agape in disbelief. He finally sighs and rolls his eyes, shoving the box into Harry's hands. He pushes the curly-haired boy aside, and climbs into the chair beside him.

 

Harry stares unblinkingly at Niall in shock— _does this mean he's forgiven, does Niall still want to be his friend_ —and snaps out of it when the blonde knocks their knees together and waves an expectant hand to his present, eyes still glued to the floor.

 

Harry rips it open, grin lighting his face, because having Niall back is just about the best present he could ever get, and his jaw drops in astonishment at the Ed Sheeran concert tickets cradled inside the box. Ed Sheeran has been Harry and Niall's favourite musician lately—and he's taken the UK by a storm—and Harry's always wanted to see him live, but the concert tickets for his show that Niall and Harry spent all summer raving about sold out months ago.

 

“I bought them off a bloke ages ago,” Niall says, his voice a bit stiff, grin wobbly as he scratches his cheek. “I had planned on the two of us going together, but I understand if you want to take someone else. I've been kind of an arse.”

 

Harry can barely believe what he's hearing. How could Niall think he'd go without him? How could he think that Harry hadn't been completely miserable the past few weeks, going out of his mind because Niall wouldn't talk to him? He'd take Niall over any Christmas present in a heartbeat, and yeah, the tickets are bloody incredible, but it's _Niall_ that makes everything right.

 

Niall actually jumps in surprise when Harry throws his arms around him, drawing him into a bone-crushing hug that has the both of them giggling, their mothers looking on with quiet, knowing smiles, because it's nice to have this back—because being Harry isn't anywhere near as fun as being _HarryandNiall_.

 

“Wait right here,” Harry orders, launching himself out of the chair and practically sprinting out of the family room. He races to his bedroom, cheeks flushed from taking the steps two at a time, and throws himself onto the ground to reach under his bed. He pulls out an old Frank Sinatra record, signed and everything, and races back downstairs.

 

When he barges into the room, Niall is still seated on the armchair, looking a bit uncertain, smile hesitant as Harry skids to a stop in front of him.

 

Harry clutches the record behind his back, fingers tapping nervously against the cardboard casing.

 

“I didn't wrap it because... well... I thought you were never gonna talk to me again, but,” he holds it out in front of him, relishing the awe in Niall's blue eyes, “Merry Christmas, Nialler.”

 

He expects the all-encompassing hug that Niall throws his way—the two of them tilting off balance and tumbling to the floor in a mess of limbs—but he can't help his surprised giggles when Niall peppers his face in sloppy, wet kisses, their mothers tittering over how cute they are in the background. Gemma leaves the room groaning and rolling her eyes, but smiling nonetheless. 

 

They spend the rest of the evening curled even closer together than usual, both hesitant to pull back because they've missed _this_ so much. Harry holds onto Niall like he's a lifeline, absorbing all of the laughs he's missed out on during the past few weeks, pressing kisses to Niall's cheek whenever he gets the chance. They eat blueberry pie right out of the tin, both squished onto one dining chair, fingers laced and shoved deep into the pocket of Niall's hoodie, when Niall finally brings up the topic Harry's been avoiding all night.

 

“I'm sorry,” Niall breathes, eyes sad and blue-stained lips bending downwards. He squeezes Harry's hand gently, and Harry doesn't hesitate to return the gesture. “I shouldn't have said what I did about your dad.”

 

Harry shakes his head, glossy curls flying, his fingers reaching up to wipe the piecrust from the smaller boy's cheek. “I should be the one apologizing. I know how much... talking about Greg and your dad hurts you. I never should have said that.” Shame weighs heavily on Harry's shoulders, and his chest is full of regret as he leans in close to affectionately nuzzle Niall's ear. “I'm sorry Nialler. I've been such a jerk. I deserved it.”

 

Niall shakes his head, and the two of them take turns taking the blame— _I'm the total twat here; no, I was the one who said all those horrible things; I'm sorry, I didn't think it would hurt that much—no I did, I'm sorry; this is my fault; no it's not_ —before Harry shoves pie into Niall's mouth to shut him up, and they finally agree that maybe it was both of their faults.

 

When Niall finally leaves that night, Harry is reluctant to let go. He clings onto the blonde for longer than he should, nose buried in the other boy's shoulder and fingers clamping tightly to the back of his hoodie. Niall holds him just as hard before Maura's scolding him for keeping Harry out in the cold for so long— _the poor boy's going to freeze to death, Niall; let him go back inside, you'll see him in two days_ —before pulling back just enough to look Harry in the eye.

 

“I'm sure your dad will call. And I'm excited to see Ed,” Niall whispers, a sincere smile gracing his face before the two of them are off, waving as they pull away in Maura's car.

 

Harry kisses his mum, hugs Gemma, and even wishes Robin a good night, before he goes to bed happier than he's been in weeks. He doesn't bother changing out of his sweater because it smells like Niall.

 

The next morning, after emptying their stockings and eating Anne's holiday tree-shaped pancakes and opening all their presents, Harry spends hours waiting by the phone, green eyes bright and excited every time it rings.

 

But as the hours pass, his smile grows smaller and smaller, and his shoulders droop sadly when the clock strikes six and he still hasn't heard a word.

 

He doesn't look up when Gemma sits down beside him, her knees angled toward him.

 

“He's not going to call. He never does,” she says, voice edgy and sharp and angry. Harry knows that Gemma doesn't like their father—maybe even hates him; she refuses to even talk about him most days, but her words feel like a slap to his face—like she's spitting on his attempts of even trying. “Just give it up, Harry, you're upsetting Mum.”

 

Harry bristles at that because he's allowed to want to get to know his father, he's allowed to want to see him on Christmas without feeling guilty, and he doesn't want to leave with his mum and Gemma to go join Robin's side of the family for Christmas dinner.

 

“He'll call,” Harry answers stubbornly, leaning back into the cushions of the couch to show his resolve. “You just need to trust him.”

 

Gemma scoffs, reaching past him to snatch the house phone. Harry makes a motion to grab for it, but she holds it out of his reach, buried into the other side of the couch.

 

“Oh yeah? You really think he has any plans to see you today?” she practically seethes. “You really think he ever has any plans to see you?”

 

“I know he does,” Harry hisses through a clenched jaw. He doesn't stop glaring even when Gemma shoves the phone aggressively into his chest.

 

“Then prove it! Call him!” Gemma says exasperatedly, throwing her hands up in the air. “He won't answer, I can tell you that much.” She watches him, brow arched in challenge as Harry shakily dials the number, all of his doubt and fear billowing to the surface and clogging his throat.

 

The phone doesn't even ring before going straight to voicemail, and Harry doesn't bother leaving a message. He sets the phone aside, fingers trembling and tears threatening to spill with every blink. Gemma doesn't say a word as she leaves, and she bites her lip softly as though she feels sorry for him, and Harry hates that even more. He kind of wishes she'd shoved her victory in his face instead—it would hurt less.

 

Harry locks himself in his room for the rest of the night, trying his best not to cry as he curls into a ball under his covers, ignoring his mum's worried questions and Gemma's half-hearted, reluctant apologies through the door. Eventually his house becomes silent, the car tinkering in the driveway, signaling that his family has left to spend Christmas with Robin's relatives.

 

Harry cocoons himself into his blankets, and doesn't move at all until his window slides open. A cold breeze gushes into his room, sending a chill down his spine, and his bed dips as a familiar body climbs under the covers beside him. Niall's warm breaths ghost over his cheeks as the blonde settles in close.

 

“Hey, your mum called. Said you wouldn't come out of your room,” Niall starts, voice uncharacteristically gentle as he combs Harry's curls out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. “What's so bad that it's stopping you from celebrating Christmas?”

 

Harry snorts—the sound harsh as it squeezes past his clogged throat—trying to act like it's no big deal, but his eyelashes are wet and matted together, and his lips are squeezed in an impossibly tight line.

 

“He didn't show up. He didn't even call to say he c-couldn't m-make it... he just... _nothing,_ ” he gets out, voice cracking and crescendoing upwards, fingers clenched tight in his comforter because he's so sad and hurt and _angry_ at his father for not showing up, and at himself for letting himself believe in the first place.

 

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Niall whispers, thumbing at the hollow beneath Harry's eyes and trailing down to his chin. “I'm really sorry.”

 

“Nothing to be sorry about. You were right: he's a dick and I hate him,” Harry spits, jaw tight, because being angry is so much easier than being hurt.

 

Niall takes a moment to respond, palm working at Harry's jaw until the younger boy is relaxed. “He's your dad, Harry.”

 

“So I'm not allowed to hate him?” Harry snaps, indignant as he pulls away, the blonde's fingers dropping from his skin.

 

“It means you're allowed to be upset when he doesn't show up. It means you're allowed to be sad, Harry.” Niall's voice is firm but soft, and he laces his fingers into Harry's, stroking the skin on the back of Harry's hands.

 

Harry doesn't respond as Niall pulls him in, their foreheads resting together as sincere blue eyes stare into teary green. “You can be sad, Harry. It's just me.”

 

When Harry finally lets himself cry—big, ugly sobs that shake his entire body—Niall pulls him close, arms wrapping around his slim waist, holding tight, and Harry knows everything will be fine.

_____________________________

Harry apologizes to Niall before the fight can last as long as it did when they were fourteen. He knows how it feels to have Niall ignore him, give him the silent treatment, shrug off any attempts at him apologizing. Niall is infuriatingly stubborn and pig-headed when he wants to be, and Harry thinks he might hate not having Niall in his life more than anything.

 

“I'm sorry,” he bursts, right when Niall returns from classes (that he's most likely skipped for the past week), looking weary and drawn-out and stressed. “I don't have the right to say anything bad about Zayn. You're right. I haven't taken the chance to get to know him, and I want to be there for you.”

 

Niall, for his part, looks surprised, eyebrows arching up. “Seriously, Harry? You don't have to-”

 

“I'm not lying,” Harry says, even though he feels like he might be. “I've been a shitty friend. If you like Zayn then the least I can do is try to get to know the bloke. He might be alright. He matters to you and you matter to me, so I should at least make an effort, so I'm sorry.”

 

Niall processes his words, and Harry's glad that it doesn't take Niall too long to reply. “I'm sorry too, Haz. I know I haven't really been around lately, and yeah, I like Zayn, but you're still my best friend. And you know always will be, right?”

 

Harry pulls Niall into a hug, feeling the pent-up anger and worry and frustrations seep from his body. Niall grins into Harry's skin, fingers tightening over the fabric of Harry's shirt against his back. They end up doing homework together, the tele playing a sitcom in the background. They order Chinese, flick rice and chow mein at each other with chopsticks, and when Niall gets the text message, Harry stuffs a large piece of orange chicken in his mouth to keep himself from saying anything he'll regret. 

 

He watches Niall leave with Zayn that night, and he thinks, _please be careful, he means the world to me, please don't hurt him._

_____________________________

But Zayn does. Niall comes back in the morning, face crumpled sloppily like a smashed brown paper bag, and Harry slaps the novel he's reading closed, and immediately is at his side.

 

“He's been sleeping with other people,” Niall manages, “he said he didn't know we were exclusive,” and Harry starts forward immediately, going through the motions of _I'm sorry_ and _it's okay._

 

Niall latches onto him, and Harry lets him, feeling the waves of pain radiate from Niall's body, wishing he could absorb them.

 

“You were right. You can say, 'I told you so,' now.” Niall's voice is bitter, but Harry shushes him, tells him not to be silly, because there's no way Harry would kick him when he's already down.

 

They cuddle that night, Harry curling his fingers into Niall's ribcage, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat, and thinking _maybe this time you'll stay._

____________________________________________________

In retrospect, love has always been hard for Niall, Harry thinks. None of his boyfriends have been monsters—not even Zayn, who apologizes profusely when he realizes how hurt Niall is and claims he really didn't know that Niall thought what they were doing was exclusive—but so far, none of them has been willing to fight for Niall.

 

Niall mutters something in his sleep and shifts further into Harry's grasp, lips pressed unknowingly against the skin under Harry's neck. Harry kisses Niall's forehead, crooking his arm further around Niall's neck, keeping dangerous suitors and heartbreakers at bay.

_____________________________

Niall's first boyfriend is named Josh Devine.

 

Niall falls hard for Josh **_when_** he's just barely beginning to understand himself. They meet when Niall is in his second year at secondary school when Niall and Harry both make the football team. Josh is a fourth year, captain of the team, good-looking with a solid, sturdy build. He has waves of dark brown hair, thick eyebrows, a square jaw, a nice smile.

 

Harry knows Niall likes Josh before Niall even realizes it himself. He can tell from the way Niall's eyes rest on Josh's body, lingering on the muscle underneath the older boy's football jersey, the way he flushes when Josh compliments him on a solid pass. He sees how Niall flounders under Josh's gaze, voice arching onto higher notes, stammers more. He notices how Niall leans into Josh's touch whenever Josh slings an arm over the blonde's shoulders.

 

Harry watches, always the wallflower, pockets each of Niall and Josh's interactions, and waits for a confession that will inevitably emerge.

_____________________________

They're huddled under the kitchen table, which has been made into a makeshift fort—Batman and cowboy print sheets caging them in on all sides. A tub of chocolate ice cream sits in between them, even though Maura always tells them to use bowls.

 

“You think we're getting too old for this?” Harry had asked, because he'd known that if they had built this at his own house, Gemma would have teased him relentlessly for years to come. But Niall had laughed at him, shoved a pile of blankets in his face, and instructed him to start building.

 

They're sharing a blanket; their sides warm as they spoon chocolate ice cream into their (and each other's) mouths. Niall's been strangely quiet all night, and it's when he lets out his sixth sigh of the evening that Harry finally calls him out on it.

 

“What's this all about then?” he asks, trying to look at Niall but getting a nose full of blonde hair instead. He scoots back a little, testing the flexibility of the blanket, and faces Niall so that their knees brush.

 

“Whaddya mean?” Niall responds, spoon caught between his lips, ice cream slipping down his chin.

 

Harry gestures to the fort around them, and raises a brow. “All of this, Niall. Don't play games with me—you know we haven't built a fort since we were ten and you wanted to tell me your parents were getting divorced.” He offers Niall a small smile, and cups some fingers under his chin to get the blonde to stop staring down into the nearly empty carton of ice cream. “What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing's _wrong_ ,” Niall sighs again, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Harry's surprised to see the hesitation and undercurrent of fear lining Niall's eyes. “I just... I don't know how to tell you.”

 

“Just say it, Nialler. You can trust me with anything—you know you're my best mate,” Harry responds, confusion and a bit of hurt etched into his voice, because Niall tells him everything. They tell each other everything, all the good things and bad things and embarrassing things because they know that it's _HarryandNiall_ and nothing's ever going to change that. It worries him that Niall could ever be afraid of sharing something with him.

 

“I... _IthinkIlikeboys_ ,” Niall confesses in one huge breath. His voice is soft and his eyes are boring in hard on Harry's face, brimming with worried tears, intent on deciphering everything that flicks through Harry's expression.

 

Harry, for his part, just studies Niall before nodding, almost thoughtfully. “Alright.”

 

“Alright?” Niall parrots, a bit confused, a tear spilling down his cheek. Harry reaches up to Niall's face, catching the silvery droplet on his finger.

 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry nods, and he's relieved to see some of the tension drain from Niall's shoulders. “I already knew, anyway. You like Josh, don't you?”

 

“How'd you know?” Niall breathes, eyes wide.

 

“You're not very subtle, mate,” Harry grins, poking Niall in the side.

 

“Oh God,” Niall moans, forehead creasing in lines of worry. Harry reaches up and tries to smooth the skin out, smiling at him. Niall lets out a shaky, relieved breath lined with unshed tears, and he buries his head in the crook of Harry's arm. 

 

“It's okay, Nialler, it's really okay.”

 

“How am I gonna tell my mam?” Niall whimpers against Harry's skin, and Harry feels his heart squeeze with sympathy.

 

He brushes fingers over blonde hair, over the crown of Niall's head. “You're just going to tell her like you told me. And she loves you—just like I love you—so everything's going to be fine, Ni. So you like dick, so _what_?” 

 

“You cunt.” 

 

Niall pulls himself out of Harry's grasp to flick ice cream into his curls, face as red as a newly-painted firetruck.

 

They spend the rest of the night curled together under the blanket, sprawled out on the kitchen tile. Niall's laptop is on the floor in front of them, and they watch stupid YouTube movies and Harry works in as many gay jokes as he can, just to make Niall laugh.

 

Niall drifts off to sleep, body slack in Harry's protective grip, curled up next to Harry's side, and Harry thinks, _I'm here for you, no matter what._

_____________________________

And Harry is there when Niall tells his mum, quaking and shaking like he might break any second.

 

As Harry has promised, Maura wraps Niall up in her arms and presses kisses to his face and tells him _you're my baby no matter what_ and _I am so proud of you for telling me_ and _I love you I love you Iloveyou._

 

They all have a good cry, and over Niall's shaking body, Maura mouths “thank you” to Harry, and Harry just nods “of course.”

_____________________________

Harry's the first person Niall tells when Josh asks him out. He's shaky and nervous, but his eyes are starry and excited and alive. Harry helps him pick out a nice outfit—a red polo with a blue collar and trousers—and reassures him over and over, “You're a catch, Niall. Of course he likes you, he asked you out. Don't worry, come on, you've got this.”

 

Because Harry likes Josh. He likes Josh because the last time he saw Niall this happy was Halloween when they were eight, when Niall finally convinced Harry to dress up as Robin so that he could be Batman. He's never seen Niall look this shy, hunched over his phone and blushing at Josh's latest text message. Niall tells him about his first kiss with Josh—how Niall's braces cut Josh's lips, and how mortified he is until Josh tells him it's okay, it just means they need to practice. Niall shows him the love bites on his neck, the love note Josh leaves in his textbook when they're pretending to study in the library. Niall tells him about sneaking out of his window late at night, tells him about the secretive smooches in the boys' locker room, the way that Josh holds his hand when he drives him home. And Harry's happy for Niall, he really is.

 

At the same time, he's worried.

 

Not everyone at school reacts to Josh and Niall's relationship the same way that Harry and Maura do. Niall gets shoved into lockers more often, and Harry even finds him shaking in a dumpster one day. The fact that he's small and a first year makes him an easier target for bullies. In particular, an upperclassman named Andy makes it his goal to make Niall's life a living hell.

 

But Niall walks around (almost) oblivious to all the hate. He keeps his head high, tells Harry as long as he has Josh and Harry and his mum it's okay. And Harry lets himself believe that things are alright because Niall's smile has never been so bright—like it's made of stars—and he's happy because Niall's happy.

 

Niall's playing video games at his house one day, back against the couch cushions as he chucks popcorn into his mouth. He seems distracted—Harry can tell because Niall's lost six matches of Super Smash Bros. in a row, and Harry's not surprised when Niall clears his throat. 

 

“So Josh and I are telling his parents about us tomorrow,” he murmurs, barely audible.

 

“Yeah?” asks Harry because he thinks this has been a long time coming, something that Niall and Josh have talked about for awhile. Maura knows about Josh and she likes him because he's intelligent and mature and treats her baby right, but Josh's family is conservative, strict, staunchly Catholic, and Josh hasn't had the courage to tell his parents that not only does he like boys but he likes a _certain_ boy.

 

“Yeah,” Niall responds, and he's smiling, but his fingers are laced against his stomach, and Harry can hear the _I'm afraid_ Niall doesn't say. Harry slides off the couch, crouches so that his face is level with Niall's, and he strokes the skin under Niall's eyebrow, above his eyelid.

 

“That's good news, yeah buddy?” he offers, pulling the jittery blonde into a tight hug against his chest. “I'm really proud of you. They'll love you.”

 

“They will?” Niall asks, uncertainly, eyes searching Harry's face. 

 

“Of course they will. Everyone loves you.” Harry says it completely sincerely, because everyone does love Niall. No one dislikes Niall.

 

“I hope so,” Niall responds, voice resigned and shaky. “I hope so.”

_____________________________

Harry gets the text at 1:17 am. His phone flashes bright in the dark, and it's only the persistent beeping that forces him to crawl out of bed and flip through the message.

 

Niall  
 **1:17 am** : im outside  
 **1:17 am** : pls i need u

 

And Harry's out of his room in a flash, treading carefully on the dark, shiny wood of his staircase, muffling the sound of his footsteps by purposefully folding the bottom of his sweatpants around his socks. He grabs a sweatshirt from the downstairs closet, opens his house door, and nearly jumps out of his skin when his cat Molly scampers inside. He shuts the door behind him and steps out, down the slick cement, and into the damp grass.

 

The sprinklers must have run recently because blades of glass are sticking to his pants, moisture seeping through his socks, but Harry doesn't care because he only has eyes for Niall. The blonde is standing in the middle of the grass, shoulders hunched and hands buried into his armpits as he shivers in the night air. He's clad in a thin, white t-shirt and his eyes are lost and broken as they land on Harry.

 

“You're gonna freeze half to death, Nialler,” Harry murmurs, more concerned than annoyed. He immediately shrugs off his sweatshirt and drapes it onto the smaller boy's frame. Niall lets out a hitched breath before he buries his face into Harry's collarbone, latching onto Harry like a lifeline, and Harry can tell from the wetness hitting his skin that Niall's crying. Harry pulls him in close, his thumb running along Niall's jaw and up to his cheek in a gesture for Niall to tell him what's wrong.

 

“It was awful,” Niall practically sobs, fingers clenching into the back of Harry's shirt. Harry tenses, as Niall barrels forward. “They wouldn't stop _screaming._ ” Harry pulls the smaller boy closer, thumbing his cheek softly, and wraps his arms fully around Niall's trembling body.

 

“Hey. Hey, shh, it's okay. You're safe now,” Harry forces himself to say, but he doesn't know how to help—he doesn't know how to fix this. He runs his fingers through Niall's hair, strokes his tear-slicked face. “Shh.”

 

“It just got so bad. His dad—” Niall's voice breaks, lined with tears, watery with disbelief. He pulls apart from Harry momentarily to turn his face, and Harry can't help his harsh intake of breath at the newly formed bruise under the hollow of Niall's eye. 

 

Harry snatches the blonde's chin, his grip softening immediately when a pained gasp slides from Niall's trembling lips. His eyes harden as he inspects the damage, the arm still wrapped around Niall's waist tightening protectively. “Who did this to you? Who did this to you, Nialler?”

 

Niall bites at his lip, shame and fear and grief manifested on his face, more hot tears leaking from his red-rimmed eyelids.

 

“Was it Josh?” Harry asks, careful as he uses his thumb to free Niall's bottom lip from his teeth. He fights the urge to sigh in relief when Niall quickly shakes his head.

 

“Was it his father?” he tries next, attempting to keep his voice level. And Harry knows he's right when a fresh wave of tears flood down blotchy cheeks.

 

“He said I turned his son into a faggot and I...” Niall sobs, and Harry pulls him in, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

 

“Sorry. I'm so _sorry_ ,” Niall whimpers, as Harry shakes his head fervently, holds him like he deserves to be held, squeezing him like he can just squeeze out all the pain and heartbreak.

 

“You never have to be sorry,” Harry says automatically. “This is bullshit. This isn't okay. That bastard should be apologizing to you,” he spits, hands rubbing warmth into Niall's shivering body. “I'm gonna fix this, Ni,” he vows, and he can tell from Niall's shining eyes that he doesn't believe him, but that sure as hell doesn't mean Harry won't try.

 

“Everything hurts so much.” Niall's voice is a tiny whine, and Harry feels the tears pricking at his own eyes because he hurts most when Niall is hurting, and Niall's the last person to deserve something like this. 

 

“I'm so s-scared,” Niall confesses, and Harry pulls him in even closer, knowing that he can't make Niall forget, but he sure as hell can try.

_____________________________

When Harry doesn't hear from Niall for the next four days, he knows something's wrong. Niall won't respond to his text messages or phone calls, and when he finally calls Niall's home phone, Maura picks up and her voice is weary and hurt. “I think it might be good if you come over, Harry. I think a friend might be what he needs right now.”

 

Harry clambers onto his bike immediately after talking to Maura, and pedals as fast as he can to Niall's house. Maura lets him in, lips drawn in a tight, worried line, and she glances upstairs. Harry nods his thanks, and barges into Niall's room.

 

Niall looks like shit.

 

Harry finds him, sitting pathetically on his bed. Empty bags of crisps and tissues litter the floor of Niall's bedroom, and Harry steps politely over a ripped photograph of Josh. Niall's clad in sweatpants and the massive Ed Sheeran hoodie that he and Harry bought to share at the concert. The sweatshirt pools over his shoulders, hood drooping into his eyes, and Harry's eyes go automatically to Niall's red, miserable face. 

 

Niall has never cried prettily. His tears don't come down in delicate rivulets, they make his pale face blotchy and red and sickly looking. His lips are pursed so tightly they're almost a straight line, and his normally brilliantly blue eyes are wells of anguish. He doesn't look up as Harry steps towards him, fingers instead playing with the frayed sleeve of the sweatshirt.

 

“Niall?” Harry asks gently, sitting down on the bed next to Niall. He pulls Niall's hood down to get a better look at his best friend. “Ni, what's wrong?”

 

When Niall doesn't answer, Harry starts pulling accusations out of the air. “Was it Andy? Was it Josh's dad? Is Greg okay? Is your dad-”

 

“Can we _please_ just let this go?” Niall speaks, and his voice is hoarse with distress and Harry can barely hear him. 

 

“Niall, what can I do?” Harry claps his hands onto Niall's shoulders, and with a sob, Niall turns to Harry and buries his face in Harry's shirt. He shoves his face into the fabric, as though he's trying to suffocate himself—if he suffocates, he won't have to feel anymore. Harry's fingers clench protectively around the smaller boy's frame as he hugs him.

 

Harry sits there and hugs Niall and lets him cry. There's mucus running from Niall's nose and dripping onto Harry's cotton t-shirt and moisture all over Harry's skin, but he doesn't care because Niall is hurting and he needs his help.

 

“He broke up with me,” Niall manages, and Harry feels the blood in his veins turn to ice. “H-his parents are— _were_ —getting divorced,” Niall says, his head nestled in the crook of Harry's shoulder. He shudders, and Harry holds onto him harder. Niall sniffles, new tears stabbing his eyes. “H-he thinks that...” his voice shakes and Harry's overcome with sympathy as Niall forces himself to continue, “if he is d-d-different, if he's _straight,_ ” Niall spits out the word with disgust, like it's poisonous, his voice laced with misery, “things will c-c-change and he can s-save his parents' m-marriage.”

 

Niall pauses, a new onslaught of tears burning his eyes, and allows Harry to marinate in the newly divulged information.

 

“God Niall, I'm sorry,” Harry says, and he is, more than anything. “God Ni, that's terrible.”

 

“Am I n-not worth fighting for? He says we c-can't be anymore, t-there can't be a-anymore us.” Niall's voice cracks on the last word, arching onto a higher note.

 

Harry knows he can't fix this. He's always been determined to save Niall, but how can he save him from this? Harry can't put a band-aid on heartbreak the way he can on a scraped knee like he did when he and Niall were learning how to ride bikes, he can't draw out a plan of how to make Niall better. All he knows is that he can sit there and _be_ there and let Niall cry.

 

And that's exactly what he does.

_____________________________

Harry spends the weekend with Niall, hardly leaving his side, glad that there's a school holiday and they don't have class until Tuesday. He whispers sweet nothings to Niall across his pillow, occasionally brushes Niall's nose with his own. Niall cries a lot and Harry makes all of the tea in Niall's house, and by Monday, Niall lets Harry brush his matted hair and clean his face with a damp washcloth and even traipses into the kitchen to help Harry make lunch.

 

Harry's diligently cutting bread when a knifeful of mayonnaise ends up in his hair. He squalls in surprise, glances up to see Niall's mischievous, dancing eyes, and retaliates by pushing Niall's face into a pile of squishy tomatoes. Niall hits Harry with his sharp hipbone, squirts out mustard onto his palm, and slathers it across Harry's face.

 

Maura comes home to find her normally pristine kitchen covered from top to bottom in condiments and sandwich meats, opens her mouth to start screaming, but she sees Niall's watery, sheepish smile and stops herself.

 

She makes them clean the kitchen, but Harry thinks it's a small price to pay for Niall's laugh.

____________________________________________________

Niall and Harry both lose their virginity in the same summer.

 

The summer before they graduate from secondary school, Niall goes to a music camp in Los Angeles to study sound engineering and Harry meets a girl.

 

Harry tries to hide the disappointment in his eyes when Niall comes bounding to his house, face etched with excitement, letter of acceptance from the music conservatory clutched in his fist. 

 

“Look, look Harry! I'm going to LA!” he crows, and Harry mumbles a half-hearted “congratulations” because a summer without Niall means a summer without sneaking into sold out concerts with a stolen wine bottle from Robin's cooler, a summer without spontaneous bike rides to unknown destinations, a summer without lazy days at the beach. It's not that he doesn't have other friends—it's just that there are no other _Nialls_ who will come meet him in the middle of the night when he has a hankering for ice cream, no other Nialls who will tell him his jokes are piss poor when they're not funny so he'll avoid making a fool of himself in the future, no other Nialls who will cuddle with him without thinking too much into it, because together they're HarryandNiall and this is the way they've always been.

 

So Harry's a bit depressed when he goes with Maura to drop Niall off at the airport, but Niall hugs him and promises him he'll write and they'll Skype every day, and Niall just looks so earnest and worried that Harry has to pretend to be excited for him.

_____________________________

The beginning of the summer sucks.

 

Harry doesn't quite know what to do with himself—he finds his fingers reaching towards his cellphone to text Niall when he remembers that he can't. His mum tells him to clean his room on a regular basis, and everyone in his family, including Gemma, is working. 

 

Harry decides to get a job at a local bakery downtown. He busies himself in rolling out dough, cutting curlicues out of chocolate, piping cakes, loading pies into ovens—so he doesn't have to think about how lonely he is. It's a bit embarrassing, to be honest, how reliant he's become on Niall, how much they've grown—rather than outwards—more inwards towards each other, linking and lacing into one another like a ball of tangled yarn. And now that Niall's not there, Harry finds himself trying to fill the loneliness. He Skypes with Niall early every morning—setting his alarm on his phone so that he doesn't miss the bright smile, the blonde hair that's starting to show dark chocolate roots, pale skin that's looking tanner from the California sun. 

 

Niall's usually tired when they Skype. A lot of their conversations involve Niall yawning—he works all day and talks to people and goes out with his new friends in Los Angeles, but Harry's grateful that he makes it a habit to Skype Harry every night.

 

Harry finds solace in those moments, basking in the happy—as grainy and pixelated as the cheap webcam makes it—face of his best friend. Those moments with Niall, where the blonde chats his ear off like he does when he's home, spending hours telling stories that Harry's pretty sure would take anyone else no more than five minutes to rehash, become the best parts of his day. Niall's life is fun and larger-than-life—the kids at the music camp are just as crazy, if not more crazy, as the kids back home—Niall tells him about the late night liquor runs and the dance parties, and how sometimes his friend Aiden will just burst out his guitar and start jamming while Demi with her perfect pitch and amazing vocal range joins in. Niall tells him California is everything he thought it would be—bright and sunny and full of beautiful people and beaches, and how sometimes he feels intimidated, but how he wouldn't trade the experience for anything in the world.

 

And Harry tries to be just as enthusiastic back—regale Niall with his own stories about the bakery or Gemma or anything, really, that he thinks Niall wouldn't want to miss—but all he wants to do is listen to the voice that he didn't realize he'd miss _this_ much.

_____________________________

Harry meets Hannah when he's on one of his breaks in the bakery. He's just slipped out to a table to enjoy a cup of coffee when a fresh-faced, petite girl with white-blonde hair in a pixie cut enters the store. She has blue eyes the colour of the sky, and a dust of light freckles across her cheekbones. Harry's struck by how much she looks like Niall, and that's probably why he takes notice of her when she stumbles into the bakery and stares wide-eyed at the newly baked biscuits in the display rack.

 

“How much are the cookies?” she asks Olly, Harry's co-worker, and Harry grins when he hears her unfamiliar accent, realizing she must be American. 

 

“Two pounds,” Olly replies, pulling a chocolate pecan biscotti out of the case, and the girl fumbles with her coin purse, lips pursed in remarkable concentration as she tries to count out adequate change. Olly takes pity on her and helps her. The girl smiles and actually _salutes_ him, and Harry can't help but snort in disbelief.

 

The girl whips her head around, and Harry feels slightly uncomfortable as she sizes him up. She grins wolfishly, and before Harry knows what's happening, the girl's sitting across from him, fresh biscuit clutched in her fingers.

 

“What's cracking, Gov'nah?” she asks, batting her dark eyelashes, smiling cheekily at him.

 

“Governor?” Harry stumbles, horribly confused, and the girl tosses back her head and laughs. Her laugh is like wind chimes on a summer day, and Harry is surprised to realize that he enjoys it, loves how easy and fresh and _new_ it is.

 

“You're American then?” Harry asks, cocking his head, and the girl grins over the edge of her biscuit.

 

“How'd you guess? I've been working on perfecting this British accent since the first bloody _Harry Potter_ book was released, but evidently it's shite. So humor me, and pretend?”

 

“Sure thing,” Harry says, sipping his coffee. He usually doesn't do the whole talking up strangers thing—Niall always does that. Niall's outgoing, sociable, easygoing in a way that's approachable, while Harry is generally shy and a bit awkward. Niall makes friends everywhere he goes, and by default, Niall's friends become Harry's friends.

 

But there's something about this girl. She's cute and funny and _tiny_ and it's nice to hold a conversation with someone who isn't an entire ocean away from him, someone who's at least in the same time zone.

 

“So, what brings you across the pond?” he tries, exaggerating his accent, picking up on her horrible lilt and sending her into a fit of giggles.

 

“Ah, you know. The tea and crumpets and time traveling police boxes and what not.” Her eyes sparkle as she ticks the list off on her fingers. “And you know, the boys aren't half bad. With their _accents_ and all.” She winks, reaching across the table to dip her biscotti in _Harry's_ coffee, and he lets her because he likes her audacity.

 

“Sorry to say those are few and far between, love,” Harry quips, head shaking in disgrace even as a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Love,” she intones, rolling the word around her tongue, testing it. “I quite like that.” She smiles at him from across the small table, glossy lips stretching to accommodate her pleasure. “I'm Hannah, by the way.”

 

And Harry recognizes the way her eyelashes flutter and her cheeks flush—he's seen it often enough from the girls at school when they're trying to impress the boys on the football team—and he can't help the little skip in his heart because she's pretty— _so_ pretty.

 

“Harry,” he manages, hiding his flush behind his mug and pulling himself together long enough to give her his most charming smile and ask her if she'd like to see London like a true Londoner. His heart skips again when she fist pumps her _yes._

 

Hannah is smaller than Harry first realizes, her hands—small and delicate and dainty—fitting easily into his palms and her waist unexpectedly narrow when he goes to wrap his arm around her. He finds out she's staying with a host family over the summer while she takes a journalism class—and it's convenient and almost too perfect that her classes essentially fall during his work hours. The more time he spends with her, the more he likes her. She's a ball of energy, sassy, upfront, and confrontational when provoked (he finds that out soon enough when he manages to get her into a bar and she has a little bit too much to drink), but she's got a smile that's brighter than the sun, and Harry feels privileged to have it shine for him.

_____________________________

For some reason, Harry doesn't tell Niall about Hannah at first. He tries to convince himself that it's because he doesn't know how to really bring it up, and pushes back the strange feeling that they don't coexist well together in his mind. But it's actually Niall who asks, voice staticy as it crackles through the speakers on Harry's computer.

 

“What are you smiling at, Styles?” Niall asks, blue eyes large as he leans closer to the screen. Harry snaps his phone shut—his last response to Hannah's text unfinished—and despite his best efforts, he can't help the sheepish smile that unfolds on his face.

 

“It's nothing,” Harry answers, feigning nonchalance. Niall doesn't buy it for a moment; he snaps his finger accusingly, index finger jabbing into the webcam and blocking out his image.

 

“You're talking to a bird, aren't you? Who is she? Where'd you meet her? It's not Caroline, is it? She's a total slag, Harry, don't-” He's cut off by Harry's laugh because _really_ , Niall can be so ridiculous sometimes.

 

“No, no,” Harry assures him, waving his hands in front of the camera, even though he knows it sends Niall's computer into a tizzy. “Her name's Hannah. She's from the States.” And now it's Harry talking and Niall listening as he goes on and on about their dates and how cute she is and how nice it feels to hold her when she's cold and how small she looks in his jumper and just how _fun_ he thinks she is.

_____________________________

Harry kisses Hannah for the first time when they're both drunk senseless. Hannah has a fake from the States, so once Harry manages to pull a favor with one of Gemma's friends, Hannah spends an exorbitant amount of money on drinks. Harry's a little miffed (and admittedly impressed) at how much alcohol the tiny girl can handle, and he grins, expression loopy, as she clambers onto the counter of the bar and starts (or at least tries to) belt out the lyrics to a song that's playing. She doesn't know half the lyrics, but her energy more than makes up for it as she hops around, spinning in circles, while the drunken crowd in the bar cheers her on.

 

“Up here, Gov'nah!” she urges, trying to convince Harry to climb up on the counter with her.

 

Harry shakes his head no, because even though he's just downed another shot, it doesn't seem like such a good idea, and he manages to coax her down. Hannah leaps off the table, and the alcohol in his brain makes him sluggish, but he catches her just in time. She lands hard in his arms, and it's more of the impact (combined with the effects of alcohol) than her weight that makes him stagger a bit, and then he's got her in his grip. Their faces are dangerously close, and Hannah is slurring something nonsensical and her eyes are bright, even in the dim lighting of the bar. A curl of his hair brushes her forehead, and he's acutely aware of how their noses are touching, and before he knows what he's doing, they're kissing.

 

Hannah tastes like rum and sugar, and she smells so good and she's just so _pretty_ that Harry's reluctant to pull back, their lips breaking apart with a loud, smacking noise. Hannah looks at him dazedly, eyes glassy and confused, and she whines, “Why'd you stop, Gov'nah?”

 

So he kisses her again.

 

Someone in the background wolf-whistles at them.

 

Hannah flips them the bird, and Harry laughs harder than he has the entire summer.

_____________________________

The first time Harry sees Justin, it's in a pixelated picture text message that just hints at light brown hair and tanned skin. Niall captions the picture with _this is the boy i kinda dig rn_ and Harry can't help but laugh.

 

_can't see anything_ , he texts back to Niall, and right as the message is sending, his phone buzzes, and there's Niall on the phone, his familiar voice rumbling.

 

“Did you get the picture?” Niall asks, and Harry doesn't have the heart to tell him that their cell phone bills are going to be off the charts if he keeps making these international calls.

 

“I can't see anything,” he tells Niall. Niall takes that as an opportunity to launch into a thorough descriptions of Justin—about how he's from Canada and has an accent that's cute and how his voice is the most beautiful one Niall's ever heard. Niall tells Harry about Justin's dewy, doe-like brown eyes and how _fit_ he is, and how every time he tries to talk to the other boy, he stumbles over his words and embarrasses himself nearly to death.

 

Harry rolls his eyes and humors his friend because he knows Niall really likes Justin, and he thinks it's good for Niall to get back into the game—especially after the fiasco with Josh. He's heard Niall mention his friend Justin in passing before, but now Justin's name is coming up more and more, and Harry figures he owes Niall this, especially since Harry talks about Hannah quite a bit.

 

“Oh shit,” Niall finishes, sounding stunned, “I'm not supposed to call you.”

 

Harry can't help but laugh. “Good luck with Justin,” he says. “I'll Skype you tomorrow, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Niall says, and he hangs up, muttering something about how his mum is going to _kill_ him.

_____________________________

“I just want him to notice me, y'know?” Niall asks breathlessly, the next day, when he's on Skype with Harry. Harry searches his mind before he remembers that Niall's still quite taken by Justin—the Canadian boy who's about the most beautiful thing on Earth—or at least that's what Niall says.

 

“Of course he'll notice you, Nialler. You're a catch.” Harry tries to sound reassuring, green eyes focused on the screen and his cell phone shoved into his bedside drawer so Niall has his full attention. It's a testament to their friendship that he didn't rip the phone out of the drawer ten minutes ago when Hannah called, her designated ringtone blasting through the cheap wood.

 

Niall nods noncommittally, more to show that he's listening than actual acquiescence. He strums absently at his guitar, humming a tune Harry doesn't recognize. He doesn't look up and Harry strains to hear him when he mumbles, “He's just so much more interesting than me, y'know? I don't... don't even know how to talk to him... I'm just... ordinary.” He flushes before looking up at the screen, expression a bit helpless. “How am I supposed to impress him when I'm just... _me_?”

 

Harry blinks, shocked, into the camera, while Niall fiddles with the tabs on his guitar.

 

“You're kidding, right?” he scoffs, laughing because the idea of Niall being ordinary is completely ridiculous, and Niall _must_ be joking. “You're probably the most interesting person I know,” Harry supplies, bending forward, earnest expression on his face, when Niall looks in the grainy screen of the webcam, a bit puzzled.

 

“Oh come off it, Harry. You don't have to lie to me—I'm not interesting at all,” Niall argues, waving off the subject and going back to his guitar as though the conversation is closed. “You're just saying that because you're _Harry_ and you have to.”

 

Harry sits up straighter in his chair, adjusting his laptop—which has been off kilter and has had Niall whining sporadically about it since the first few minutes of their conversation—and tapping at the screen like the piece of crap will actually do something.

 

“Hey, what's gotten into you?” Harry asks, eyebrows drawn low, forehead scrunched, giving Niall a look. Because this isn't the Niall he's used to—the carefree Irish lad who doesn't care what people think, the easygoing one, the life of the party, the one with friends everywhere who's fun, both drunk and sober. Niall's generally so confident, so assertive, and it's unnerving to see him doubting himself.

 

Niall messes around with his guitar a bit longer before slumping over it, chin resting on the body and hands going limp at his sides. He leans forward to look at Harry intently, and even though the image is grainy, Harry can see the unmistakable blue of his eyes.

 

“It's just... weird being over here. It's weird not having _you_ here,” he explains, voice mumbled. Harry has to strain to hear him over the static of the microphone as Niall continues, “I keep turning around and looking for you when something funny happens or I see something cool or I'm tired and I just wanna lean on someone.” He shrugs, trying to play it all off as unimportant, even when Harry can hear the hitch in his throat that means he's really upset. “I just miss you is all,” he admits, trying for a wobbly smile.

 

“Hey, come on! Ni, you're in LA!” Harry says, throwing his arms wide in a grand gesture, and grinning when Niall lets out a watery chuckle. “I'm in boring old London making sugar flowers, and you're out in California with loads of cool people who are as nervous as you—people who want to get to know you! You're having the time of your life out there!” And Harry knows it's true—despite how much it kills him to admit it—because Niall loves music, has always loved music. Niall spent the past year raving about this camp, and Harry doesn't like the idea of his best friend's trip being spoiled because Niall misses him, even if he misses Niall every bit as much.

 

Niall nods, head bowed, and Harry almost misses it when the blonde whispers, “It's just not the same.”

_____________________________

Harry and Hannah both know this—whatever it is—won't last longer than the summer.

 

Harry asks her once, in between heated kisses, when they're holed up in the storage room of the bakery. There's flour in her hair, and powdered sugar on her nose, and there's a stripe of pink frosting on his cheek. Hannah giggles as she licks at it, rolling her tongue as she savors the sugar.

 

“Where is this going?” Harry whispers, stroking her clipped hair, cupping his fingers under her chin. There's silence as he waits for her reply.

 

“We've got a good thing going, Harry,” she finally answers. “Let's not ruin it by talking about it, yeah? It's too hard.”

 

And Harry has to be content with that. He knows Hannah's had one boyfriend before him, and they broke up because of distance, and she's sensitive about it. He can tell because when it comes up, she looks wistful and changes the subject to something capricious, silly.

 

So he doesn't press it, even though he really, _really_ likes her, but he knows their time together has an expiration date.

 

In the meantime, he lets himself enjoy his time with her, taking it one day at a time.

_____________________________

The second time Harry sees Justin he's Skyping with Niall. And he can tell why Niall's fallen for Justin. Justin's effortlessly good-looking, in a classic way. He's slender, thinner than Harry expected him to be, lean, wiry body all edges and ridges. Justin has full, pouty dark pink lips, thick, dark brows, high, chiseled cheekbones, and flawlessly styled hair. He has no acne whatsoever—his skin is a flawless canvas—and no wonder Niall's been texting Harry about this beautiful boy in his music class.

 

Justin's wearing a black wifebeater, a black crown tattoo on his chest just peeking out over the edge of the fabric. His arm hangs rather possessively over Niall's shoulders, and Harry doesn't know why, but he's bothered by it. He shakes if off though, because Niall looks so insanely happy—for the first time since Josh he looks giddy and nervous and shy—that Harry has to be happy for him.

 

“Justin, this is my best friend Harry,” Niall says, beaming from where he's sandwiched under Justin's arm. “Harry, this is Justin.” He looks carefully at Harry, his expression reading _please don't mess this up for me,_ and Harry feels vaguely insulted because Niall should know him better than that.

 

“Hey Justin,” he waves, hoping that he's not as pixelated from Niall and Justin's end as they are on his own.

 

“Hey Harry, nice to meet you. And nice accent—God, all of you European guys, I swear!” Justin's voice is just as smooth as Niall claims it is, rouged with an accent Harry finds different, but not unpleasant. “It's good to meet some of Ni's friends.”

 

Niall flushes at the nickname, and Harry tries to fight the feeling that he's bothered by someone using _his_ name for Niall.

 

“Justin and I are working on a project,” Niall says, blustering nervously. “I'm gonna try to record him and see if I can smooth out some of the kinks in his voice—try out some effects. I... I mean, there aren't really any mistakes to fix, but it's just to try,” he quickly amends his statement, eyeing Justin carefully.

 

“God, Niall, you're like my biggest fan,” laughs Justin, pulling Niall in closer and ruffling his hair affectionately. He seems confident, rippling out words easily, and he smirks, revealing straight, white teeth. “Harry, Niall's like the greatest, don't you think?”

 

That's an easy question for Harry.

 

“Yeah,” he says, the answer coming naturally. “He really is.”

_____________________________

He doesn't really know how to bring it up, so he says it as soon as Niall's appears on the screen.

 

“So Hannah and I had sex.” Harry tries to sound nonchalant, but he can see Niall on the other end, blue eyes wide, mouth gaping.

 

“Shut up, _what_?” Niall gasps, leaning in close to the screen. “What was it like?”

 

“Er, it was good.” Harry searches for the words to explain, because he can't really. It was awkward at first—of course it was, it was the first time for the both of them—and Harry knows Niall isn't expecting some grand play by play that's reminiscent of a film, but it's a private matter, just between him and Hannah. It feels a bit wrong to share that moment—to talk about her and what she and Harry shared—even with Niall, whom he's always told everything.

 

And he doesn't know how to explain it, really. He doesn't know how to say how nerve-wracking it was to see Hannah—usually so confident and feisty and outgoing—so quiet and vulnerable and shy. How her eyes had been so impossibly big and so impossibly blue looking up at him from where she'd been nestled into the duvet of her bed in her room at her host family's house, and how it was terrifying to see that much trust in someone's eyes. How his heart had rampaged against his chest, and how he could practically hear hers doing the same. How she'd watched as he shucked off his shirt, eyeing the line of taut muscle in his abdomen, and then how he'd given her the same attention—how amazing it had felt to run his hands down the lean stretch of her stomach.

 

He can't tell Niall how she'd reached out, lacing their fingers together as she leaned upwards to kiss him, lips soft and sweet and familiar like velvet, yet so foreign because there was something pounding heatedly in the back of his mind, screaming that this was new, different, _good._ How every touch had been scorching, spiraling across his body. How vulnerable she'd looked under him, like he could break her any second, and how afraid he was of hurting her. How the hum of trust in the room was louder than the sound of trousers hitting the floor, the unclasping of her bra. How his fingers had trembled as they mapped out the wonderland of her body, how he'd asked repeatedly if he was hurting her. 

 

He doesn't know how to accurately describe the way his name had sounded on her lips, breathy and hushed and so full of life. And it had been good, so _good_ ; even now, he can't help but smile when he thinks back to how she had poked fun at the constellation of freckles on his back, and how he had flipped his hair and huffed and told her, _really, now, you're ruining the moment,_ and she had laughed before drawing him in for another kiss, her apology lost between their lips.

 

Harry remembers how protective he'd felt afterwards, the way that Hannah curled into him, sweaty and sticky, their heart rates coming down together through open-mouthed kisses and lazy touches. The way his palms had splayed across her bare stomach as he held her close under the covers, the way she'd smiled at him like he'd hung the moon. 

 

It feels wrong to tell Niall, like he's passing on a secret meant only for two.

 

“It was... special,” he tries lamely, wincing at his lack of eloquence, looking beseechingly at Niall.

 

Niall nods, licks a bit at his chapped lips, before reaching for his guitar. He asks Harry if he wants to hear a song he's been working on to do a duet with Demi, because she's a real firecracker and he bets Harry would like her.

 

And Harry's glad he has a best friend who understands.

_____________________________

The rest of summer goes by too fast, as far as Harry's concerned. His Skype sessions with Niall get less and less regular because he picks up more shifts at work, spends more time with Hannah. He takes her to do every touristy thing he can think of: they go see Big Ben, rent segways for an exorbitant price, eat fish and chips. Harry tries to block out the date of her leave, tries to fill the days with lazy walks in the park, spontaneous trips to the cinema, day trips to the countryside.

 

Hannah spends the night at Harry's house the night before she leaves—feverish fingers trailing over flushed bodies and laughter ringing through the night as they commit every bit to memory—and Harry can't be happier that the rest of his family is gone to visit Robin's vacation home for the weekend. They make love, and Hannah cries afterwards, embarrassed smile quirking her cheeks. Her tiny body trembles in Harry's grasp, mascara running in trails down her cheeks. Harry wipes the tears from her face, his own eyes soft and misty because they know it's the end.

 

“I'm sorry, this is so stupid,” she murmurs, fingers twisting in the bedsheets. Harry grabs her hand, lacing their fingers. She blinks up at him, punching him shakily in the shoulder and huffing, “You're not going to forget about me come tomorrow, are you?”

 

Harry shakes his head, letting her breathy, shaky laugh die out before pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “Of course not. I could never,” he answers, flicking at her wispy hair and earning a giggle in return.

 

“You better not,” she quips, twisting a curl of his hair around her finger, and kissing him again.

_____________________________

When he takes her to the airport the next day, his heart is heavy as he pulls her suitcase out of his car. He knows he's not allowed to—it's something they agreed on in the beginning—but he really wishes he could tell her not to go.

 

They stand a bit awkwardly, until she looks at her watch and, hands shoved deep into her pockets, says, “I think I have to go now. I've got a plane to catch and all.” Harry can tell by the way she hesitates before picking up her bag that she doesn't want to leave either.

 

“Alright,” he says, already missing her. He leans in to kiss her, and she turns, making him catch her cheek, the _don't make this harder than it has to be_ filling the gap between them—the gap that will soon be an ocean wide.

 

“Thank you for an incredible summer,” she says, squeezing him tight. She gives him a soft smile as she steps back, fingers wrapped tight around her bag.

 

“Thank _you,_ ” he supplies, imagining how miserable he would have been without her—and without Niall, stuck at home all alone. He finds it almost impossible to imagine finding anyone as bright and beautiful as she is—someone who can make him feel like she had: light and airy and invincible like he could conquer the world. When they break apart, he feels empty, hollow, like his arms are meant to hold something delicate, fragile, and it's been robbed from him. “I'm glad we met.”

 

She turns to look at him over her shoulder as she enters the airport, raises her arm and calls out, “Loved getting to know you, Gov'nah!” and he laughs—like he always seems to do around her—giving her a watery smile in return.

 

“Come back anytime, Hannah!” he calls. “Don't break too many hearts in the States, okay? I don't think I could handle it.”

 

She blows him a kiss, and he pretends to catch it. He drives home, eyes drifting out on his familiar hometown, cradling the memories he's made, and he knows it's true. He'll never forget her.

_____________________________

When Harry gets home from dropping Hannah off at the airport, he realizes he's missed his Skype call with Niall. He doesn't bother checking his computer; he drags himself into his room and curls up in his bed, chest aching because he misses her already, and he feels heartbroken, even though he had promised—to both Hannah and himself—that he wouldn't be. His mum drops in, rubs his hair and kisses his forehead—she loved Hannah, his entire family did—and she says she's sorry, but it's a part of growing up, and she's proud of him.

 

When he finally gets around to checking his computer after work the next day, he has an email from Niall that just says, _hey harry, if ur free i really need someone to talk to,_ but when he replies, Niall doesn't answer. Harry's mind is still clouded with memories of Hannah, and he checks the calendar to realize that Niall's probably already on the plane ride home. He feels awful about missing two video chats in a row, but he figures whatever it is that Niall needs to talk about can wait until Niall's home.

 

When Harry picks Niall up from the airport, he can tell immediately that something's wrong.

 

Niall's mouth is turned upwards in a semblance of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. His eyes are ringed with fatigue and puffy with what Harry suspects might be from crying, and his grip on his suitcase is shaky. Harry takes it from him, and pulls Niall into a tight hug.

 

Harry's polite enough not to comment on the way Niall's trembling, just takes a step back to take in how much Niall's changed—his hair's almost completely dark brown, his skin is more freckled, more tan—but Niall seems fragile, smaller than he's used to, small in the way he was after his break-up with Josh. They're silent as they make their way to Harry's car, and Harry turns on the radio when they get in. He watches Niall curl up in the chair, legs wrapped close to his body, lean his head against the pane of the car window, give him that fake smile that Harry doesn't buy for a second.

 

They're about fifteen minutes from Niall's home when Harry turns off the radio.

 

“You gonna tell me what's on your mind then?” he asks, breaking the silence, trying to keep his voice level and gentle, because he knows Niall lashes out when he feels cornered.

 

Niall looks at him weakly, trying to play dumb. “What?”

 

“Niall, stop it. I know something's bothering you.” _Let me help you_ , he doesn't have to say. _Tell me what's wrong._

 

Niall starts rubbing the skin at the corner of his elbow, chapped lips mumbling, “It's... it's nothing. Everything's fine.”

 

Harry pulls to the side of the street, stops his car in the parking lot of the grocery store his mum and Maura shop at on a weekly basis. He pulls his keys out of the ignition, turns to look at Niall.

 

“Niall... come on, it's me,” he tries, voice straining with effort. “Come on. I got your email, and you said you needed to talk. And you've been awfully quiet and I know you, and I know something's wrong. So we're gonna talk abut it.”

 

Niall starts rubbing his arm harder, fiddles with his seatbelt, curls himself up into an even smaller ball. He keeps his eyes stubbornly off of Harry, before he sighs, voice breaking. “It's just... it's stupid.”

 

“Niall.” Niall doesn't respond, and Harry tries again, thwacking his steering wheel with an open palm, and he's surprised when Niall flinches. “Niall, listen to me. Nothing bothering you is ever stupid.”

 

Niall takes a deep breath, and Harry tries not to be too alarmed about the way his voice is hitched. “Justin and I had sex.” Harry's about to say something, but Niall continues before he can get a word in. “Harry... I mean, he was trying to be careful, I know... and I really, really liked him but I just didn't think it would... hurt that much...” he admits, all in one gasp, eyes cast downwards again. Harry can see the unshed tears matting Niall's dark eyelashes together, but his chest is tight with pain for his friend, and he doesn't know what to say.

 

“Did... did you say yes?” he tries, because he remembers Hannah and how he'd asked her over and over, _is this okay, we can stop now if you want,_ and his heart drops when Niall starts gnawing his bottom lip.

 

“Yeah? I... I don't know, Harry,” Niall manages. “I don't know. I spent a lot of time liking Justin, and it was really nice when he liked me back, but it just happened so fast and I didn't... It was good at first. I liked it—the kissing and stuff—a lot, but it just... I don't know, everything happened so fast... I don't...” he trails off weakly, raising his arms in defense, and Harry takes it like a slap to the face because he doesn't mean to sound accusatory.

 

His own voice is low and shaky when he asks the next question. “Why didn't you tell him, Niall? Why didn't you tell him you weren't ready?”

 

“I didn't know _how,_ ” Niall deadpans, eyes turning to glance out the window, shrinking in on himself. Harry can only see his profile, but he can see Niall's shoulders slumping, his lip wobbling, and he's not surprised when Niall swipes the back of his hand quickly over his eyes. “I mean... I just thought of you and how you'd done it. I didn't think it was that big of a deal,” he murmurs, sounding ashamed. “Haz, I just didn't want to feel left behind. I know it's stupid but I just... don't know if I was ready.”

 

“Shit,” Harry curses, eyes softening when Niall winces. “Shh, Niall, I didn't mean it like that.”

 

He unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls over the console to squeeze into the seat with Niall. The chair's much too small to fit two teenage boys, but Niall looks so tiny and vulnerable, it's nothing like how Harry remembers him. Harry can't get the image of Justin's sinewy body over his best friend's— Niall terrified with his words lodged in his throat—out of his mind. He hates himself for telling Niall in the first place, because maybe if he hadn't said anything, Niall wouldn't have gotten himself into this mess, and he wouldn't be sitting here, worrying away at his lip, trying hard to be strong and invincible when he's on the verge of collapsing.

 

Niall murmurs into the hollow of Harry's neck, a tear finally making its way down his cheek. “I mean I'm okay, Harry. But he's going back to Canada and I'm here, and I'm never gonna see him again. And he probably won't even remember my name five years down the road and... I... want him to, Harry, I don't want to be forgotten.”

 

Harry runs small circles over Niall's back, fisting the fabric of Niall's shirt before he finds the right words. “I'm sorry, Ni. I don't know about Justin, but _I'll_ never forget you.”

 

Niall sniffs, rubbing his sleeve under his nose, and looking out the window. His eyes are swimming with tears, but he's resolute as he brushes them away. “No, you don't... you don't have to be sorry, Haz.” He sighs, scrubbing at his face again, letting out a grown of frustration when a few tears drop heavily from his matted lashes, stippling Harry's t-shirt. “I'm just being stupid, sorry.”

 

“Hey, hey, none of that. Didn't I just say this isn't stupid?” Harry scolds lightly, tugging the blonde into his side and wrapping a protective arm around his waist.

 

Niall shakes his head, stubborn when he pulls out of Harry's grip, head knocking lightly into the window. He bites his lip and shrugs, blunt fingernails digging into his jean clad legs. “It's whatever, Harry. I'll get over it, no big deal,” he whispers, trying to act brave even as his face crumples and more tears collect on the ends of dusty eyelashes.

 

Harry watches him for a moment, watches how he blinks blurrily out the window—how he bites at his lip to stop the stuttering sob building in his shaking chest.

 

He places his hands over Niall's, burrowing his fingers into the spaces between Niall's own. He ignores Niall's whisper of _I'm fine_ as he pulls his friend back to him, encasing the smaller boy in a hug that has Niall's nose fitting snugly into his neck and his legs pulled across Harry's lap.

 

“You're allowed to be sad, Niall,” he whispers, fingers stroking dirty blonde locks. He thinks back to that Christmas when they were fourteen and Niall had comforted him, how he had held him close and told him that it was _okay_ to be sad—how Niall had brushed away every tear, worked him through all his anger, let him curse and cry and just let everything out. “You can be sad, it's just me,” he repeats, and Niall must pick up on it because he lets out a stuttered, shaky laugh—one that's more hollow than amused—and Harry dutifully wipes away the tears that spill over.

 

Niall stares at him, before he finally whimpers, “I really _needed_ you, Haz.”

 

Harry feels like he's taken a sledgehammer to the chest, wishing with all his heart that he'd been in Los Angeles **_where_** Niall had fallen too fast, too hard for the second time, wishing that he hadn't missed their video chat. He thinks about Niall, lost and scared and confused in an unfamiliar city, an unfamiliar country. “I'm here now,” he whispers, stroking Niall's hair. “I'm not going anywhere, k?”

 

“It's gonna get better, right, Harry?” Niall looks at him for reassurance, stubborn facade broken down, vulnerability bared through.

 

Harry doesn't answer.

 

It does get better. It takes awhile, but it gets better. Niall starts to lose that shyness, that hesitation, that awkwardness. Some days are worse than others, but eventually the emptiness fades. His walls come down, and he lets Harry back in. But things aren't ever quite the same. That summer shows them both that they can be without each other—lets them explore the world outside of what they know—but it also shows them a darker side of the world, lets them take down their rose-coloured glasses and meet reality face-to-face. It shows them that they can be without each other, but that neither of them really wants to be. After that summer, Harry knows things are different, and he wonders if it's maybe just a part of growing up. 

 

School starts, and they're both busy with university applications, and soon things are (almost) back to normal. And when Harry sees Niall flipping through Polaroid pictures of his time in Los Angeles, wistful expression in his eyes, he pulls Niall in for a quick, comforting squeeze, and they don't say anything at all.

_____________________________

“Harry!” Anne calls from where she's fixing lunch in the kitchen. “Harry, Niall's at the door!”

 

Harry's heart is pounding in his throat as he sprints down the stairs, long legs taking two-three steps at a time. He flings open the door to take in Niall's bright smile, excited eyes, his fingers clenched around a white piece of paper adorned with a college crest, like it's made of gold.

 

“You got in?” he asks breathlessly, as Niall bursts through the doorframe to pull him into a hug.

 

“Yes, and your mum told my mam that you did too, you slag! Why didn't you tell me?”

 

_I was afraid you wouldn't. I don't want to go anywhere without you_ , is on Harry's lips, but instead he squeezes Niall's arms. “Can you believe it, Nialler? We're going to school together! _University!_ ”

 

“Already started looking at flats,” Niall says excitedly, “I found one kind of close to campus. I made an appointment with the blokes living there to see if we can check it out next week-”

 

“I can't wait,” Harry interrupts, because it's a _given_ they're living together, always has been. He grabs Niall by the wrist to pull him into the kitchen. “But let's have a drink first, yeah? Robin's got a new bottle of champagne that's just dying to be opened.”

 

____________________________________________________

 

After Zayn, Harry thinks he might actually have a chance. He rehearses speeches in his head, trying to figure out the exact words to tell Niall how he's fallen for him. He plays out every possible scenario—the best case is that Niall will realize he feels the same way and they'll dash off together into a happy ending, and the worst case is that Niall won't feel the same way. Harry tries to not let himself think about the possibility that Niall won't want to be his friend anymore—because he knows Niall better than he knows himself. 

 

He knows everything about Niall: how he feels most comfortable having a serious conversation under a kitchen table, how his favourite sound is the ringing of a guitar string in an empty arena, how he gets claustrophobic in small spaces or large crowds and the ironic way to calm him down is to attach yourself to him like an octopus, squeezing tight and kissing the side of his neck. He knows how Niall loves music perhaps more than he likes breathing, knows he wants to go into music production, knows he can play guitar and sing beautifully, but has no idea of how good he really is. He knows what life with Niall is like—they grew up together, played in sandboxes and found hole-in-the-wall places to eat scattered throughout London—how they live together as roommates in uni and hardly ever sleep in their own beds. He knows how Niall falls too hard, too fast, and he's determined to not be another heartbreaker.

 

Harry moves slowly, carefully, deliberately. He woos Niall gradually, does everything one step at a time, because Niall deserves it—deserves someone who will take the time he needs, and really love him like Harry knows he can.

 

It's a month of quiet cuddles, movie nights. Harry makes breakfast for Niall every morning like he always has, links his fingers into Niall's, liking the way they slot in like they belong. Harry wonders if Niall feels it too—the electricity in the air between them—he wonders if Niall's stomach flutters, if his heart beats faster, if Niall ever looks at him and the word _soulmate_ clicks automatically.

 

Harry wants to do something romantic—a picnic in the park, a trip to the beach—but Niall's been craving the scones they serve down at the cafe with the two nosy baristas, and Harry gives in because it's Niall, and he always does.

 

They wait in line, hands casually linked, Niall's head hooked over Harry's shoulder, and Harry sees it now—gets why they've been mistaken as boyfriends—they look like a proper couple.

 

He's proven right when they reach the counter and the curly-haired barista—Ree—gives him a knowing smile, an _I told you so_ as she eyes their hands and nods.

 

“What can I get for the newlyweds?” she says teasingly, eyes bright and mischievous. Niall quirks a brow, but when Harry doesn't say anything, he shrugs off the comment, moving onto ordering the entire menu (as Harry winces because he's a uni student and he really can't afford these pastries, but he can't tell Niall that), before finally turning to Harry and asking if he wants anything.

 

“What? You're not going to share with me?” Harry asks, nuzzling his nose into Niall's cheek, pressing a light kiss behind his ear.

 

Niall laughs, eyes bright as he looks up at Harry. “Course I'll share with you, you twat. I meant what do you want to drink?”

 

Harry pulls him into his chest, wrapping around Niall's shoulders to burrow his hands in the blonde's coat pockets. “I'll have a chai tea latte.” He turns his green eyes to Ree, and is met by a blinding grin. He falter a moment, before asking for the total, hoping that the faded bills he has in the pocket of his trousers will be enough.

 

“It's on the house!” squeals Ree, already spinning around to prepare their drinks.

 

“But-” Harry starts, because he saw how flustered Tara got last time, and really, she can't keep giving out free food.

 

“Trust me,” she cuts him off, voice firm and brown eyes eyeing them up. “It's on the house.”

 

Harry shrugs, used to the odd behavior by now, and goes to find them a table while Niall waits for their drinks. Harry's drumming his fingers against his knee, all nervous energy, when he hears a crash from the other side of the cafe, and hears Niall's unmistakable yelp.

 

He stands up to see Niall, legs entwined with a good-looking man. The man has hair cut close to his head in a buzz cut, dark brown eyes, a square jaw, a broad chest, and his lips are pursed in an “o” of surprise—but Harry's too busy looking at the coffee seeping through the man's clean, white button-down to study him much further. Niall's hands are shaking, wrapped around two practically empty coffee cups, and he's too busy apologizing to the man to notice the barista—Tara—practically sandwiched under his ass.

 

“Get off me!” Tara grunts indignantly as she struggles to escape his weight.

 

“Shit, I'm so sorry! Fuck, I'm such a klutz.” Niall babbles as he gets off of Tara and helps her up. As he reaches for Tara's hand, he drops one of the cups of coffee, spilling tan liquid all over the floor. “Fuck!” he cries again. “Ah, fuck, I'm so sorry. I'll clean this up.”

 

Harry runs to grab napkins, but when he gets back, Niall's already thrust a handful of napkins at the stranger and is trying to dab at his shirt. Harry can tell his efforts are futile—the man's shirt is obviously ruined—stained through with dark coffee. But Harry's a bit shocked when he sees that the man's trying to keep his... is that _laughter?_ constrained.

 

“It's okay,” the man says, trying to brush off Niall's hands.

 

Niall furrows his brow in concentration and only wipes with even more gusto. At this point, Ree has arrived and is gingerly sweeping up ceramic shards of plates as Tara mournfully picks up the scones she'd been balancing on her tray.

 

“What happened?” Ree asks loudly, whisper failing miserably.

 

“Niall tripped into this bloke and then fell onto me,” Tara replies sharply, not trying to check her voice, looking rather perturbed. “It's okay, I'll clean up—you just go get Table 3 their order.”

 

Harry leans over to help her, picking a piece of muffin out of her hair. “Are you alright?” he asks her gently, and he's relieved when Tara smiles at him.

 

“Yeah, I mean, these things happen,” she says, pointing Ree back to the cash register, and trying to reassure Harry. 

 

“Ah shit, I'm so sorry. Tell me how I can make it up to you,” Niall blusters, eyes refusing to meet the man's.

 

“Listen, it's okay,” the stranger says, voice good-natured and kind. “It's Niall, right?”

 

Niall nods, a bit hesitantly.

 

The man cocks his head, eyeing Niall carefully. “Okay, well... Niall, I know how you can make it up to me.”

 

“Anything, just name it,” Niall blusters eagerly, still pink-faced with embarrassment.

 

“How about you let me take you to dinner?”

 

Niall and Harry's mouths drop open simultaneously because _what?_ In Harry's experience thus far, pouring coffee on a stranger and destroying his expensive outfit doesn't warrant a free dinner, but Niall's shaking his head disbelievingly, flushing like an excited schoolgirl. _Unbelievable._

 

Harry's just about to protest—he considers even grabbing Niall by the hand and dragging him out of the cafe because _dear God_ this cannot be happening again—when Niall nods and reaches out to accept the stranger's phone. Harry watches, mouth dry, as Niall's skilled musician fingers enter his number as though he's afraid the man will take back his words any second.

 

Instead, the stranger's expression is kind, eyes squinting in affection as Niall babbles on and on about how he isn't sure this is going to make up for anything.

 

“My name's Liam,” the man finally offers, cutting Niall off. His fingers move to take off his button-down to reveal his stained, clinging undershirt, and _dear lord he's fit._ “I have to go now—I was supposed to be heading to a meeting.” Niall looks increasingly guilty like a puppy that's just eaten his master's shoes, but Liam just chuckles as he folds his coffee-covered shirt in his hands. “Really, don't worry about it.” He picks up his satchel—which Harry notes is also splattered with coffee—and turns for the door. “I'll call you, and remember you have to say yes, okay? You owe me.”

 

Harry's mouth is still flopped open, completely dumbfounded, as Liam leaves—Niall staring off after him starry-eyed like he's a regular _Superman_ —and Harry can't believe this is happening again.

 

There's a muttered “well _fuck_ ” behind him, and Harry turns to see Tara shaking her head in disapproval. When Harry looks at her in bewilderment, she gestures to the mess on the floor. Harry bends down to help clean up the shards of ceramic and scattered bits of pastries before returning on his booth, forcing himself to put on a smile as Niall starts with the _holy shit, Harry, did you see that bloke?_

_____________________________

Harry knows after the first date that there's going to be another one. Niall's coy about it at first, a little shy when Harry questions him—discreetly, of course, he can't come across as _desperate_ —but Harry can tell there's going to be another date from the way Niall's walking around the flat with a _strut_ in his step, the way Niall sings in the shower, the way he's glued to his cellphone.

 

It's after the third date— _he took me to the opera, Haz, can you believe that?_ —that Harry realizes he has a snowball's chance in hell with Niall. Because Liam has a nice car and money and can take Niall out to fancy places. Liam is handsome and has a great body and works a real job and is mature. Liam's the reason _**why**_ Niall loves in the first place, because it's fun and incredible to feel wanted, cared for, loved. Not to mention the fact that he treats Niall like he's the reason the sun shines and the grass grows.

 

And Harry? Harry can't give Niall those things—even though he would in a heartbeat if he could.

 

So when Nicholas Grimshaw, the snarky, quirky radio host of the university, asks him out, Harry says yes.

 

Nick has a long face, tufts of hair styled upwards in a quiff, a shit-eating grin. He's not good-looking in the conventional sense, but Harry likes the way he says what's on his mind.

 

Their first date, per Harry's suggestion, is at Cowell Cafe. Nick makes a quip about Harry being the cheapest date ever, and Harry only blushes, punching him in the arm (because that's what he'd do if it were Niall), before telling him the scones are to die for (at least that's what Niall says) and that soon enough the older boy will be groveling at his feet, begging for forgiveness. Nick accepts the challenge with a smirk and a pinch to Harry's ass.

 

Harry gets to the counter, Nick draped all over him like he's trying to get Harry to _wear_ him, and is surprised to see Ree practically _scowl_ at him.

 

“Hi Harry,” Ree says coolly, looking Nick up and down. “What can I get you?”

 

“What are you in the mood for?” Harry asks Nick, shrugging the older boy off his shoulder. Nick gives him a dangerous smile that has Harry's stomach fluttering in anxiety.

 

“Anything as long as I'm with you, love,” he quips, and Harry blushes in spite of himself.

 

Ree's eyebrows knit in the middle of her forehead, furrowing up quite a bit, and Harry thinks it must be her time of the month. “We'll take a blueberry scone and a cranberry orange one,” he says, “chai tea latte for me... Nick?”

 

“Mocha frap,” Nick says, looking a bit unnerved at how Ree is practically glowering at him.

 

“Okay,” Ree says icily, “it'll be fifteen pounds.”

 

Harry shells out the money (because Grimmy looks a bit distraught at the price), and they find a booth. Harry tries to stop himself from fidgeting, because it's weird—it's his first time on a proper date with a _male_ , and Grimmy is eyeing him with those dark, predatory eyes, lips curved up over sharp teeth, and he doesn't know where to start the conversation.

 

Their drinks and scones arrive. It's actually Tara who sets them down quite huffily, giving Harry a betrayed look before she stalks away. Harry might be mistaken, but he's pretty sure she says something along the lines of, “Where's _Niall_?” under her breath.

 

Harry takes a swig of his drink hurriedly so he can think a bit longer about what to _say_ to Grimmy, and he's shocked when it's bitter and watery—like it's been made of tap water. He glances at Nick, who's frowning into his cup of coffee, and then his eyes drift to where the scones are nearly scorched black. He glances over to the cash register, and catches Tara practically glaring at him as though he's gone and set fire to the cafe.

 

“You have shit taste in food, Styles,” Grimmy coughs hoarsely as he pounds his chest after he tries his drink. “What's the matter with you?”

 

Harry opens his mouth to defend himself, when he notices the sparkle in Nick's eyes.

 

“Good thing I have quite a few places up my sleeve I'd love to take you,” Nick says, batting long lashes at Harry before reaching across the table to swipe a finger across Harry's cheek. “What do you say?”

_____________________________

Harry brings Nick back to the flat after the third date—not because he has anything sleazy planned, mind you—because it's still pretty early after they finish dinner (a place of Grimmy's choosing because he no longer trusts Harry's taste in food), and because Harry had off-handedly mentioned that his roommate was out for the night, and that he had all three extended editions of _The Lord of the Rings._

 

Harry doesn't really expect anything to happen. He and Grimmy have already kissed once, twice—the older boy is really just a _first date_ kind of guy. It's a bit shocking at first—the only guy Harry's ever kissed is Niall, and he's only kissed Niall on the lips once—back when they were twelve and starry-eyed and Niall tasted like chocolate—and kissing Nick is a lot different, but not bad. But things with Nick haven't gone past light snogs and over the clothes petting.

 

So when Grimmy leans in—just as Frodo and the gang arrive at the _Prancing Pony_ —and slips a palm across Harry's thigh, lips mouthing at the base of his neck, Harry isn't really expecting it.

 

Long, expert fingers dig lazily into his thigh, the thick denim of his pants doing nothing to block off the intense heat radiating off of the other boy's large palms. The lips on his neck slip up, sliding skillfully up his skin, the stubble of Grimmy's cheek scratching over his jaw and bringing a stuttering sigh to Harry's lips. 

 

There's the shocking feel of stubble against his face, rough and rugged, and Nick's not a girl so he doesn't bend willingly, let Harry take control. Most of Harry's experiences with snogging have included fluttering eyelashes coated in mascara, soft, dark eyelids, marbled lips that beg to be plundered. Nick is aggressive, assertive, fighting for dominance. Kissing Grimmy is intense and so _boy_ that it makes something stir in Harry's stomach; there's something about just letting himself go—knowing that Nick can take and _wants_ whatever Harry throws at him—that's both unsettling and liberating.

 

Grimmy bites at his lip, hand reaching up to grip Harry's hip—fingers slipping heatedly under the bottom of his shirt, trailing over the skin of Harry's stomach—and Harry doesn't hesitate to flip himself over the boy, knees digging into the couch on either side, a smirk settling over kiss-swollen lips, before diving back in.

 

Harry completely forgets about the movie—more focused on the hands twisting into his curly hair, almost painful, trailing down the column of his throat, skirting over his taut stomach. 

 

It's nice—Harry thinks—feeling _wanted._

 

Grimmy has just finished growling about how _fucking hot this is, Christ Harry_ into the younger boy's ear, hands pulling and molding their bodies together as efficiently as a snog on the couch can let them, when the door opens and Niall walks in.

 

He doesn't seem to notice them at first as he takes off his coat, humming to himself. Luckily, by the time he turns and sees them, Harry's got Nick's face between his palms, and is pushing the older boy back even as Grimmy fights to pull Harry in closer.

 

“Oh,” Niall blinks, surprise lacing his tone before something darker flashes across his face, and his jaw snaps closed with an audible click. “You didn't tell me you were having a friend over.”

 

Blue eyes scan the scene—no doubt noticing the way Harry's shirt has rucked up around his ribcage, and the red marks littering the base of his neck. Harry shrinks, wishing he could disappear into the couch, as he tugs up the collar to hide the hickeys.

 

“You, uh,” Harry starts, distracted by the hand that Grimmy has managed to sneak under his ass, “you... you weren't supposed to be home until eleven.”

 

Niall shrugs, chin jutting out, and arms crossed squarely over his chest. “Liam got a call from work. He had to drop me off early,” he says, and Harry doesn't want to look at the way the blonde's hands clench into fists, or the upturn of Niall's nose as he turns to walk stiffly to his bedroom. “Just don't... fuck up the couch, yeah?” he says, flitting his hand around to gesture at them.

 

Harry winces as Niall's bedroom door slams, and slips off Grimmy's lap in spite of the older boy's protests—he's not really feeling it anymore.

_____________________________

Grimmy is easy and lazy and Harry likes how he laughs at things without reservation, kind of like Niall. Nick is vulgar and playful and he likes to squeeze Harry's ass in public and laugh at Harry's mortified expressions. Being with Nick is fun, and their dates remind Harry of being with Niall, and he almost forgets about golden hair and cornflower eyes altogether.

 

But.

 

The sinking feeling of disappointment doesn't stop after Niall returns home, cheeks pink and starry-eyed after whatever Liam has managed to pull off.

 

Harry says no to a fourth date with Nick, and Niall comes home to find Harry curled up on the couch, nursing a cup of tea.

 

“You alright?” Niall asks, and Harry nods. “Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine,” and he tries to convince himself it's the truth. He lets Niall wrap his arms around him, fingers laced over his chest, and pretends that his heart isn't beating as hard as it is because it's just easier that way.

 

“What happened?” Niall's voice is soft. He leans back into the couch, body still close enough for Harry to feel his warmth, but no longer touching.

 

“I broke it off with Grimmy,” Harry shrugs, sipping at his tea. It's cold and flavorless, and he's not really hungry or thirsty, but drinking it helps him take his mind off of the heat of Niall's body, how close he is.

 

“Oh.” The way Niall says it catches his attention, and Harry turns to look at him, but Niall just has sympathy etched into his face. Harry goes back to his tea. “Did he do something to make you dislike him?”

 

Harry shakes his head, because there's nothing really to dislike about Grimmy—he's fun and easy and witty, a bit too forward, but it's not a bad thing. “No, just wasn't feeling it, ya know?”

 

Niall nods, teeth sinking into his lip. He looks as though he's thinking, and then bounces off the couch to rifle through the DVDs they've collected over the years from garage sales, birthday presents. “How about we watch a movie, yeah? Get your mind off it?”

 

Harry is just about to agree when Niall's phone goes off. Harry recognizes the ring—it's Liam.

 

“Hold on a sec, Haz,” Niall holds up a finger, the phone already pressed to his ear. “Hey Liam, I can't really-” he starts, pausing mid-sentence to listen. Harry sees the way his eyes light up in excitement, before the blue eyes turn to look at him. Niall's face falls as he stutters into the phone. “That... that sounds amazing, Li, really, but I—no, no, it's just that I already made plans with Harry.”

 

“You can go,” Harry finds himself saying, wanting to punch himself in the face because why is he pushing Niall into Liam's arms? But he knows he's made the right call when Niall kisses him on the cheek, smile wide and eyes bright.

 

“Meet you in twenty minutes,” Niall tells Liam, and Harry tries to convince himself his tea is the reason he feels so cold.

_____________________________

“So,” Niall says, and Harry perks up because he knows well enough that Niall is looking for advice and reassurance. “Liam wants me to meet his parents.”

 

“Okay,” Harry replies slowly, trying to hide the disappointment in his eyes. “That's good, right?”

 

“What... what if they don't like me?” Niall toes the floor with his foot, eyes drifting down to study the carpet as though it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen. “What... what if... it's like...”

 

And Harry reads the _what if it's like Josh again?_ teetering at the edge of Niall's lips, refusing to break free because saying it will bring the pain back, and this is a new, brighter chapter of Niall's life and he doesn't want to relive the memories that they've outgrown. But all Harry can see is Niall when he was fifteen, standing outside Harry's house in the wet grass, the bright-eyed boy who'd fallen for the star of the football team. He stands up, walks over to his best friend, and claps hands onto Niall's shoulders.

 

“Stop it,” he orders, cupping his fingers under Niall's chin. “They'll love you.”

 

“You think?” Niall replies, and Harry can hear the _that's what you said last time_ sitting in the air between them.

 

“I know it.” Harry's assertion is firm and strong, because he knows Liam is mature and older and successful, and he's not _afraid_ to fight for Niall like Josh was—he knows Liam's good for Niall. Harry wishes he could hate Liam like he hated Zayn, hate Liam's pressed, clean button-ups, hate his dark eyes, his square jaw, but he can't, and that might be the worst thing of all. Because he sees how Niall smiles when he comes home after a date, eyes crinkling up at the sides, giddy, breathless laughter falling from his lips, and he only hates that Liam can give Niall all the things he can't. “Now let's pick out what you're going to wear.”

_____________________________

Liam's parents love Niall. They love him because how could they not, when Liam looks at him like he's responsible for all the good in the world. How could they not love Niall with his Irish accent and bright smile and easygoing personality?

 

Harry teases Niall, pokes the blonde in the chest as Niall blushes all over under his lightly freckled skin, beaming with pleasure.

 

And Harry tries not to think about how Niall's slipping further and further out of his grasp.

_____________________________

The thing is, Niall and Harry almost didn't go to uni together.

 

It's the plan, of course it is—when they start applying, their university lists are almost identical. The schools are all in the UK—Harry doesn't really know what he wants to study yet, but he's always loved English, and Niall's set on sound engineering—and the whole unspoken thought process is that they need to go together. The summer before their senior year showed them that, showed how they could be apart, but also how they'd never want to be.

 

Their mothers are a bit worried, fluttering around anxiously, and their university counselors try to discourage them—“Have you looked at this school, Harry? Have you ever thought about going to the States? Your marks are definitely good enough,” and “Niall, have you heard about this conservatory? It's great for people who want to go into music. You can't limit yourself to the schools that Harry's applying to—you guys will be friends no matter what,”—and so they finally concede. Harry applies to a school in the States that he knows is a long-shot, and Niall applies to a music school in Ireland.

 

Harry ends up getting rejected, which he isn't all too torn up about—because he and Niall get into the same university early on. All of their plans are squared away, their flat chosen out, the rent decided, their mothers puttering around to buy them the duvets they'll need, pots and pans—when Niall gets another acceptance.

 

Harry's actually over at his house when Niall's phone buzzes with an email. Niall pauses the video-game they're playing to check it disinterestedly, and Harry watches as his brows knit in the middle of his forehead.

 

“What is it?” Harry asks, playfully tapping Niall's cheek.

 

“I got in,” Niall mumbles hesitantly, “I got into the University of Dublin.”

 

“Well what are you waiting for?” Harry teases, slouching over the couch to rest his chin on Niall's shoulder. “Turn them down, you already know where you're going.”

 

When Niall doesn't answer, Harry pokes him in the side. “Turn them down, yeah?”

 

Niall looks at him, teeth worrying his lip. “My dad wants me to come live with him.”

_____________________________

“You should go.” Harry flops down next to Niall where the blonde is spread out on his bed, face buried in his pillow. He knows the thought has been weighing down both of them—he's tossed and turned himself at night, all of his plans for the future suddenly so different, bleaker—the thought of not having Niall with him in uni is disconcerting and scary. “I think you should go.”

 

Niall's quiet, fiddling with his fingers, twisting his thumbs together, and when he looks up at Harry, his eyes are wells of shock. “What?”

 

“You... you should go. Go to Dublin... be with your dad,” Harry says, hoping Niall will ignore the way his voice is shaking. “I mean... you've always wanted this, Nialler.” 

 

“I already turned them down,” Niall admits hesitantly, looking sheepish as Harry sits up.

 

“What?” Harry blusters, because he knows Niall's always wanted this—he knows Niall wants the chance to know his dad, to get to interact with his brother for more than the trips Greg takes once a year to come visit Maura. He knows his dad's absence has been a hole in Niall's life, a missing piece, because Harry feels the same way about his own father.

 

“He's never really been there for me, y'know?” Niall says carefully, blue eyes studying Harry cryptically. “And you... well, you, Harry... you've kind of been there all along. I'm not gonna just leave—I'd rather... I'd rather do uni with you than be with my dad.”

 

“Well shit, Nialler.” The thoughts are running through Harry's mind at a mind-blowing pace, and he swallows hard. “Well shit.”

 

Niall shrugs, mouth downturned, expression a bit sad. “You know, some things are meant to be. And you've always been there for me, and he hasn't—so it wasn't really a hard decision.”

 

Harry knows Niall is lying, knows it must have taken a lot for him to turn down the opportunity to reconnect with his father, and he hates how relieved he feels about the whole situation. So he slings an arm over Niall's shoulder, plants a sloppy kiss to Niall's cheek. “Thanks, Ni.”

_____________________________

When Harry gets home from classes, he makes out a figure sitting, curled up under their kitchen table. He crouches down, making out a blonde head, freckled skin, sad blue eyes. “Niall? Nialler what's wrong?”

 

“He told me he loved me,” Niall says, voice barely audible, strain of distress shining through. His hair is disheveled, as though he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. “Liam told me... he's in _love_ with me.”

 

“Okay?” Harry says, cautiously, getting down to his knees and crawling under the table with Niall, even though it's been years since he was small enough to do this. “Congrats?”

 

“He told me he loved me and the only thing I could say was, 'I'm so sorry.'”

 

“Oh.” Harry's quiet as he pulls his legs up against his chest, studying Niall. His head brushes the wooden underside of the table's surface. “I... that's...”

 

Niall whimpers, the sound small and a bit panicked. Harry puts his hand on Niall's arm. Niall pulls back, curling further into himself, muttering, “I just... need some time on my own, Haz.”

 

They sit awhile in the silence, Harry refusing to move because he knows Niall needs him—wants him there. His heart is pounding, and he watches in silence as Niall spreads his body flat against the floor, cheek pressed to the tile.

 

“Harry.” Niall's statement is a question, even though he doesn't have the trademark question mark at the end. He props his head up on his arms, glances over at Harry curiously, and Harry turns to look at him.

 

“Yeah, Nialler?”

 

“You... do you think I'm a bad person?” Niall mumbles carefully, eyes flickering up to meet Harry's a bit guiltily.

 

The _no, are you crazy, I love you_ dies on Harry's lips, and he knows Niall wants to talk. “What do you mean?” he tries carefully, hating how Niall flinches.

 

Niall worries his bottom lip with his crooked teeth, glancing upwards as he searches for words, and Harry's momentarily reminded of how Niall did that when they were six and he asked Harry if his voice really sounded that different from the other kids' at school. Harry puts himself on Niall's level, lying belly pressed against the floor. The tile floor is cold against his stomach, but conversations under the kitchen table is something they've always done. 

 

Niall lets out a shaky breath before flitting his eyes up, imploringly at Harry. “Liam... he's perfect, you know? Like he was perfect. Everything about him was right—he showed up on time, he was a real gentleman, took me out for dinner, bought me Nando's when he was on break from work and drove it to school, even bought me fucking... flowers.” He furrows his forehead, eyebrows knitting in the center, before continuing. “And... I broke up with him? And I don't... I didn't even have a good reason for him except that he was too good for me.”

 

“Like I dunno, Harry. I couldn't have really found anyone better, and he was perfect, and I... I just didn't feel good enough for him and I dunno why he liked me. He deserves someone perfect and not... me, y'know? And I... I don't know why I couldn't... I couldn't handle it.”

 

Harry's silent, letting himself marinate in the newly divulged information, before he says, “Sometimes... things just don't work out, Ni, you know? It's okay.”

 

When Niall doesn't respond, Harry pulls himself out from under the table, reaches into the refrigerator to get a carton of chocolate ice cream. He grabs two spoons, and then slips back into the darkness, nudging Niall with his foot.

 

Niall gives him a watery smile.

_____________________________

It's two weeks later, and Harry and Niall are sprawled out on their living room floor. Niall's flopped over a couch cushion, blonde hair disheveled, a bit of drool dribbling from his chin, and Harry wonders why he finds him adorable. They've just gotten through a marathon of homework before their exams, and Harry thinks they deserve a round of drinks.

 

“Ni, you wanna go to the bar?” he asks, nudging Niall in the side of the ribs with his foot. Niall doesn't answer, and Harry rolls over, stomach scratching against their worn carpet.

 

Niall's eyes are unfocused, a bit hazy as he stares off into space. He's been doing it quite a bit lately, and Harry doesn't know why. When he asks about it, Niall shrugs it off and tells him that it's nothing, he's just thinking, he's tired.

 

“Niall,” Harry repeats, crawling over until he's lying beside the blonde. He pokes Niall in the side again, “Are you even listening to me?”

 

“What?” Niall asks, head snapping to the side, eyes suddenly alert, and Harry's acutely aware of how close they are.

 

“Do you want to go out tonight? Get some drinks?” Harry asks, trying to drag his eyes off Niall's lips.

 

“Oh,” Niall breathes, blinking at the brunette before turning to gaze at the ceiling. “Nah, I'm okay.”

 

Harry's forehead crinkles a bit in worry—Niall’s _always_ in the mood for a drink—and he's just about to say something when the far off, cloudy look is back in Niall's eyes. Harry curls up next to Niall, flopping his body out on the ground, gazing up at the ceiling as though he'll discover what Niall finds so interesting. He feels the exhaustion drain through his body, and he's just about to nod off to sleep when Niall finally breaks the silence, voice low and hesitant as though he's not sure he wants Harry to hear him.

 

“Wanna hear something crazy, Harry?”

 

Harry opens his eyes, surprised to see that Niall has shifted onto his side, fingers curled up close by his face and much closer than Harry remembers him being originally.

 

Harry takes in a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his voice steady, before he brings up his own hands and entwines their fingers. “Sure, Ni. What is it?”

 

Niall looks at their hands, eyes curious and maybe a bit surprised, and bites his lip. He takes a bit of time to answer, and when he speaks he's stammering. “I... so when I broke up with Liam, he... he told me he was expecting it.” Niall sweeps his tongue across his lip now, eyes flitting everywhere but Harry's face. “When... when we broke up he said something really weird.”

 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, worried about Niall's behavior. He reaches up to grasp Niall's chin, and Niall's eyes finally settle on him—anxiety sparkling amongst the sea of blue. “Ni?” he says again, his own voice sluggish with concern and confusion.

 

“He... he said he was expecting it,” Niall repeats, and now it's like he can't look anywhere except into Harry's eyes. Niall rushes forward, voice breathy as though he's afraid of forgetting his words. “And when I asked him why, he said... he said he should have known because I'm in love with _you._ ”

 

Harry's eyes widen, his heart nearly jerking out of his ribcage, but Niall's continuing before he can say anything. “He said I've been in love with you this whole time.” Niall lets out a breathy laugh, high and forced and loud in the silence. “That's crazy, right?”

 

“What?” Harry manages, voice weak as his heart claws its way up his throat because _did Niall just say he's in_ love _with him?_

 

“Nothing, never mind,” the blonde rushes out, evidently misinterpreting Harry's response. He shifts to get up, unraveling his fingers from where they're entwined in Harry's. “It was stupid, just forget it-”

 

Harry grabs him by the wrist, pulls him back down so that they're sitting eye to eye. He gulps, nervous and excited and terrified and _happy_ because Niall might love him, Niall _loves_ him. “It's not crazy or stupid.”

 

Niall stares at him, vulnerable under Harry's gaze. “It's not?” he whispers, almost disbelievingly as Harry's hands drift down to settle over his.

 

Harry shakes his head, one hand rising to run finger-pads over the nape of his neck. He leans in, until all he can see is blue, blue, _blue_ and the light hairs on Niall's chin, and then his lips are ghosting over chapped pink ones. A shiver runs down his spine before he whispers, “Can I try something?”

 

Niall nods quickly, a low whimper in the back of his throat as Harry closes the space between them, hands pulling the blonde in closer—one gripping at golden locks of hair, the other flattening against the small of Niall's back, molding their bodies together.

 

And it's like they're twelve again, at Anne's wedding, clumsy limbs and fingers cupping messily under one another's chins, and soft lips meeting in a gentle kiss. This time they don't bump noses, and they don't laugh when they pull away, full of innocence and wonder. This time, Harry goes in again, full of intent and urgency as he brushes his tongue against the seam of Niall's lips, a happy sigh passing from him to Niall when the blonde opens up for him. Niall breathes in hard, like he can survive off of Harry's exhales. 

 

“Wow. It's _always_ been you, hasn't it, Harry?” Niall whispers, eyes shining as he looks at Harry the way Harry's dreamed he would for the last few months.

 

“Yeah,” Harry replies, his heart racing so fast it feels like he just might _burst_. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

And the thing is this, Harry thinks, it's only natural. Niall's the boy he has known his whole life, the one he can talk to without words. And Niall's been there through it all—he was there the first time Harry got so drunk he was hungover until four, when they both got braces and sat miserably around in bed drinking soup and eating ice cream, when Harry broke his arm playing football, every memory—good and bad—has Niall in it.

 

Maybe it's the way things are meant to be.

_____________________________

When they finally work up the courage to tell Anne and Maura about them and their (newly) discovered feelings, they're horrified when their mums start laughing.

 

“It's about time!” crows Maura, megawatt smile that Niall inherited from her wide across her face. She chuckles, wiping a tear of mirth from her eyes.

 

“We've always known,” Anne comments secretively, “or at least we've always hoped.”

 

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, his fingers wrapped around Niall's arm, eyes wide in surprise.

 

Maura tuts, smirk manifesting itself in her eyes. “I could tell Niall had a huge crush on you back when... when he was seeing... what's his name? Zayn?”

 

“You were with Zayn every night!” Harry blusters, turning to Niall, trying to avoid using the word “fucking” because Maura is there and the thought of Niall with someone else makes him nauseous.

 

“To try and stop thinking about you,” Niall counters, blushing in spite of himself under Anne's adoring coos. “I thought you were straight then, Harry, remember?”

 

“Well I never did,” Anne supplies (un)helpfully, as Harry squawks in indignation. “Mother's intuition, you might say.”

 

“Congratulations, boys,” Maura says, eyes soft as she takes a sip from her cup of tea. “All we can say is that we're glad you two came to your senses, or else Anne and I would have had to do some major intervention.”

 

“Christ,” Niall moans, “I need a drink.” He stalks off to the kitchen, and Maura beckons to Harry, expression gentle.

 

Harry walks to her, leaning down when she gestures that she wants to say something.

 

Her breath is warm, careful on his face, and she runs her fingers through his curls of hair. “You take care of my baby, okay, Harry?”

 

Harry nods, and promises. “I will.”

_____________________________

The first time they make love, Harry can't get his mind over how incredibly _right_ it is.

 

It's a bit weird—a bit unnerving at first—to think that he's known Niall practically his entire life—can picture Niall at every age, with missing teeth, with both chocolate hair and hair the colour of a corn husk, with adolescent limbs, and now, with his wiry, lithe body. And the thing is Harry's seen Niall naked before—their mothers used to give them baths together and there have been sleepovers and the fact that Niall turns into a stripper when he's drunk—but it's different now, softer, sweeter.

 

Niall's all angles and broad planes, and Harry can see constellations of freckles and golden hair wherever he looks. He's acutely aware of the way Niall's hips slot into his own, generating an undeniably delicious friction, how hot the room is, how there's blood coursing between his legs—hard and hot and ready. It's liberating, dizzying to let the sounds roll off his lips unchecked, blossoming from soft mewls of desire to unchecked moans.

 

It's scary at first, slicking his fingers up with cold lube, to prep Niall, because Niall's gasping, dark eyelashes fluttering. Harry stops every second to ask if he's doing it right, if he's hurting him—because he _can't_. But Niall's whimpers morph into sobs of pleasure, heart-shaped lips pursed in a “o,” and Harry watches as Niall comes unraveled under his fingertips.

 

“ _Please_ ,” Niall keens, hips canting upwards, pupils blown wide, body slick and hot and so perfect, so _right_ , and as Harry enters him, he's surrounded by a glorious velvet, tighter and hotter than anything he's experienced. Niall whines, thrusting to meet Harry a bit impatiently, and Harry keeps pressing feather-light kisses to Niall's face as he starts to move.

 

Neither of them hold out for too long, and when Harry comes inside Niall, his vision is a blinding white, and he thinks he might be able to just about touch the stars. His body trembles, and he's shaky, but deliriously elated as Niall follows him, Harry's name tumbling off his lips.

 

Afterwards, Harry rests his forehead against Niall's, thumbing his fingers over Niall's chest, still panting as he tries to catch his breath. 

 

“Well that was different,” quips Niall, grinning bashfully, nipping Harry's nose playfully. He looks radiant, practically glowing, and Harry can't take his eyes off of him. 

 

“I... _thank you_ ,” Harry whispers, eyes on Niall like he's the best thing he's ever seen (and it's not hard because Niall probably is). Niall's eyes soften, and he pulls Harry in for a kiss, soft and _right_ and Harry tells himself he's never letting go.

_____________________________

Falling in love with Niall might be the easiest thing Harry's ever done.

 

It's like they fit perfectly together. Niall fills every crevice of Harry's heart, even the little cracks he didn't know he had. They know everything about each other—growing further and further in towards one another, entwining like vines, so close, so tight that nobody can pull them apart.

 

It's not about the timing or the place or even what they can do for one another, but it's just them—it's _HarryandNiall_ —it's what they've always been. It's about how much they love each other, and how they always will.

_____________________________

Gemma gets married the fall after they graduate.

 

Her fiance is a bloke named Dougie Poynter, and it's weird because it's his big sister who's been bossy and a pain, but Harry loves her regardless, and he's surprised when he approves of Dougie. Harry likes how he makes her laugh, how he plays guitar and sings, and how he looks at her like she's the best thing he's ever seen.

 

Niall is Harry's date to the wedding (obviously), and after Harry stands for the thousandth picture and greets the last one of Gemma's friends, he sneaks off from the rest of the wedding party to find the blonde. They escape to the men's bathroom, and emerge debauched, shirts (and pants) slightly disheveled, because there's something undeniably _hot_ about Niall in a tux, and Harry can't (and doesn't have to) keep his hands off of him. 

 

When Gemma smashes Dougie's face into the wedding cake, Harry breaks his attention for a second to turn and look at Niall. Niall's nearly crying with laughter, eyes scrunched up at the sides in little crinkles, mouth curved like a crescent moon, rough, unhinged laughter spilling from his lips. Everything is spinning—maybe it's the alcohol, the excitement, the fact that his big sister's _married_ —but Harry cups his fingers around Niall's face, looks at him, and thinks _there is nothing of you I don't want to keep._

 

And so it comes out in a rush, much sooner than he's planned—but he's been thinking about this all along, because how could he not? Because what are the chances of finding someone who learns the lyrics to your favourite song so you won't have to sing it alone, someone who knows how you like your coffee with three teaspoons of cream and four packs of sugar, someone who has known you from the time you used to bury yourself under the covers to hide from the thunder? Someone who was your trusty assistant when you decided you wanted to become a magician, someone who clapped at all your tricks, even when you failed miserably? 

 

What are the chances of finding someone who can finish your sentences, remembers your mother's birthday and reminds you about it, makes you your favourite ice cream sundae only to eat half of it himself? Someone who isn't afraid to ride the bus with you, didn't laugh at you when you got a bowl cut but instead got the same one so you wouldn't be alone, who buried your cat when it died because you were too torn up to do it yourself? Someone who stuck by you when you thought getting those earrings were a good idea, washed your face when you threw up on him after your first time drinking? Someone who held your hand when you got your first tattoo even if you practically crushed his fingers? Someone who told you you looked fine when adolescence brought with it acne and hair in embarrassing places? 

 

What are the chances of finding someone who tells you he loves you—and means it—when you haven't showered for three days, who borrows your clothes without asking, who will save you a seat without being reminded, who knows your poetry by heart? What are the chances of finding someone who believes in you even when you don't think you're ready for him, who has seen you at your best and your worst and accepted all of it—who will meet you again and again when you're both old and your memory's gone, because he'll never let you go? Really, what are the chances?

 

So Harry feels himself fumble for the small, velvet box in the pocket of his pants—the one he's been carrying with him for awhile, waiting for the right moment.

 

“Niall,” he says, bravely pushing forward before he can lose the courage. “Niall, I've known you my entire life and I want to know you for the rest of my life. I... I don't know how to be without you,” he admits. “I _need_ you.” The words are sloppy and not at all what he rehearsed, but they're raw and unrefined and so real. 

 

Niall blinks at him, big blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and Harry thinks of that fateful day when he was five, and is so, _so_ glad he wet his pants.

 

“I just don't... I love you. I _love_ you,” he spills, voice getting stronger, words bubbling out of him, because he needs to let Niall know.

 

Niall grins at him, replies, “I know,” right as Harry manages to say, “Niall... will you marry me?” He pulls out the handsome dark blue case, flipping it open to reveal an elegant, simple silver band.

 

Niall's eyes widen; he takes in a hitched breath, and Harry's heart is racing miles in his chest because maybe it's too soon, maybe Niall will say—

 

“Sure,” Niall answers, smile brighter than Harry's ever seen it, “sure, why the hell not?”

 

And then Harry's breathing again, body warm like the sun is radiating outwards from inside him, stomach flipping somersaults in delight. He slips the ring onto Niall's trembling finger, his own hands shaking themselves, and then Niall is in his arms, arms wrapped around his neck and digging into his hair, kissing him full and hard, mumbling, “yes of course, of course, _ofcourse, yesyesyes_ ,” words running together. They're young and stupid and uninhibited, but sometimes that's the type of love that lasts a lifetime and beyond.

 

Niall tastes like chocolate cake and champagne and the future and dizzying possibility, and Harry? Well, he's okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to hear what you think :) x


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